


Thin Walls

by closet_monster



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Badly Written, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, POV First Person, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Slow Burn, So i had this idea, Why Did I Write This?, i guess, what can i do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-10-31 20:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17856470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closet_monster/pseuds/closet_monster
Summary: CEO, ex sniper scout and part-time manwhore, Billy Russo has a modus operandi when it comes to women he might be attracted to. However, in the oldest and smartest trick, the new neighbor lands a (very unintentional) hit that throws him of his rhythm.





	1. blackout

**Author's Note:**

> oh hi. I had these ideas while being unapologetically horny and I wrote them down in a hush. HOWEVER, I'm not as invested anymore, so I'm just going to post these straight away, just to see if there's anyone out there who likes this. So not like I'm trying to be a attention whore or anything, but if you want to read more, tell me or something, just so I don't waste my time writing more and no one reads or likes it (I hope this didn't sound rude).  
> English isn't my first language, by the way, I didn't have classes and that kind of stuff, so if you see some BAD bad things, grammar and all that, you know the drill.  
> ALSO I'm still trying to figure out how to post these without having them in a horrible format, so please be patient.  
> So I guess that's it. Kissus and have fun! (by the way I just learned that it's "I" and not "i". HOW EXCITING IS THIS????I LOVE THE INTERNET AND NEW AGE LEARNING YAAAAAAYYY)

Godamm elevator. God-fucking-damned elevator.

            You see, I’m not exactly scared of small spaces and all that jazz – claustrophobia has never been my thing. Perhaps my father’s, but I can’t stress enough about that disturbing little man these days.

            This was all because of him, anyway. The moving a whole country away, just for the sake of never once running into him in the city (or receiving any calls, since he is too cheap to go for international). And yeah, I get it; I’m making it seem as if I’m a real bitch, and although it is title that mostly fits me, that’s not really my position in this situation.

            We’ve never been close - that's to say something. He's the narcissistic alcoholic type and it doesn't go well with my petty and smartass nature. One way or another, it ended up with me getting the hell out of that house as soon as I could, and out of the country in the first opportunity that appeared.

            There’s just so much life can give me, but the force of the circumstance made me one hell of a director and songwriter. From ghost writing to ghost writing, I made myself quite the name in the industry, and thanks to that, I ended up with an actual solid career. Funny, huh? Some rich popstars want you to write some songs and then, they also want all of your ideas for a music video. And well... Director it is. Strange ride.

            Quite the career and quite the money, but only “quite the name” if you work for the music industry or is one hell of a crazy fan (the kind that listens to all of those personal productions being thrown here and there in the internet, that is). Not a lot of fun and happiness, to be honest, but it’s certainly better than not having a lot of fun and happiness in a place where I’m haunted by plenty of entities that I’d rather not face right now. _Or ever_.

            It’s complicated (you probably have that figured out by now).

            And so has been life, but it’s good to travel. From job to job, production to production, always in movement and head always filled with work – doesn’t leave much space for thought and sentiment of my own, and that’s just how I like it, but my life is one hell of a cliché narrative, perhaps written by a touch starved forty year old and sold in a cheap corner store.

            That’s how I ended up thinking that it would be a good idea to settle down in an apartment in New York. _Godamm penthouse_. With so much glass, grey, red brick walls and a coldhearted decoration that seemed everything but homey – a place that didn’t seem any better than the hotels I’ve spent such a long time in.

            It got better as the weeks passed by, of course. I turned what was supposed to be the master suite into a tiny studio, protected by soundproof walls and packed with all of my production equipment. Neither the building owner or the neighbors enjoyed all of the disturbance I caused while making the changes, but for all of the money I’ve spent in the place, they had to shut up and have patience (it’s not like I had construction workers hammering the ground at 2a.m., anyway). And well… The person whose apartment was right in front of mine wasn’t in town during the whole process, so I felt less guilty about being so annoying.

When we settled the deal during lunch, my rich and wolfish landlord was proud to share with me that my neighbor was the CEO of Anvil, and that sometimes he’d go weeks or months without even showing up in the place; that he served in god knows how many operations.

            Now, being a foreigner, that meant absolutely nothing to me. Later on, when I had the curiosity to search for “Anvil”, I assumed that what he meant to brag about was that my neighbor was a marine who owned a company for security and training – therefore, my pretty newcomer’s ass was safe and sound.

            “Have a good night of sleep, knowing full well the man you share your thick walls with is a well trained killer who probably has PTSD and one hell of a weapon collection”.

 _I know_ , overlooking is an extension of my personality; you’ll get used.

But as it is, I didn’t give it much thought. After all, my baby grand piano was placed in the living room, the guitars, violins and cello arranged nicely on the wall, the plants were well distributed in the large main balcony, the console piano placed in the back porch with the rest of the plants and my bedroom ended up being what was supposed to be the guest room.

I don’t need too much space, after all: I grew up in a house the size of my new living room (who would’ve guessed, huh?) with four insane people.

So back to this very day: g _od-fucking-damned elevator_. For all that price and technology, it’s almost offensive that the elevator would stop midway in the middle of a stupid blackout – and the major offense isn’t even being god knows how many feet up in a elevator shaft. The problem is that it had to happen right now, getting me stuck with my charmingly intimidating neighbor in the first time we ever met.

He’s silent, but I have good ears: last night, I heard his door being opened for the first time after three weeks living in here; heard some muffled sounds that were hard to describe, but meant that there was a human cohabitating in the same floor as I was. And it was a little unnerving, if I am being honest: it’s hard to play and sing, being fully aware that a stranger might be hearing.

I ended up going to sleep earlier – and for that matter, I had some serious work to do the following morning, anyway. There was a meeting with fine producers to discuss a new Disney musical, to which I had been invited to write some songs and do art direction for (something I’ve been trying to play cool, but failing a little).

So I woke up humored, today. Wide smile, hands reaching to pet my soft and fresh sheets and not giving a single damn about the way my hair was sticking strangely to the sides; despite the chronic ache in my low back; _this was a good day_ , or so I hoped.

That good mood was until I stepped out of the apartment and noticed the man in the opposite side of the lobby, doing literally the same thing. And no, I’m not exactly charming and one hell of a company, but I’m well mannered enough to smile and wave to people when we lock eyes and say good morning.

The CEO (god, I can’t remember what Wikipedia called him) is way younger than what I pictured. That’s probably because this denomination, “ _CEO_ ”, always makes me think of depraved rich old men, who prey on their assistants and daughter’s friends. I guess I didn’t consider the piece of information implying that he was a marine; therefore, I didn’t come to mind that my neighbor would be a incredibly beautiful man with dark eyes and a intimidating tall figure.

It wasn’t part of my already low expectations.

I had to move after he smiled back, of course. There was still a fucking meeting waiting for me in some part of this still unknown city, and a bottle of red wine in the counter just in case everything worked out well and I decided to celebrate on my own (something that I’ve done a lot, since leaving town).

It wasn’t until we both got into the elevator that he spoke – I’m not exactly a psychologist, but I’m good at reading people, and the way his posture fixed by my side meant that he was about to talk. Overlooking, right?

–Miss Y/L/N. I was informed about you moving in here three weeks ago. –The neighbor said that with a dangerously charming smile creeping up the corner of his lips. For his credit, perhaps it was the whole black three piece suit situation that made him more intimidating; where I’m from, men only wear suits in weddings or inside their coffins. –And I might have heard from someone that you’re not exactly quiet and peaceful, so far.

–Hm… The landlord said my neighbor was a marine, but I guess he failed to mention that I was also being investigated.

Like most times, the sass makes it’s way out of my mouth before I can even process the words. I’d say it is a defense mechanism that I developed back home, and touching the subject of the neighbors being angry about the noise I’ve made in the construction and adaptations doesn’t help.

The comment doesn’t seem to rub him off the wrong way, after all. In reality, his smile gets a little wider and he’s almost replying, but _then_ , it fucking happens.

It’s as if god (one that I don’t even believe in, by the way) pulled me up by the hair while the rest of the world started falling – it’s a solid impact, but not strong enough for the two of us fall down. The white led lights from the elevator are almost instantly replaced by the red light form the “emergency” sign, and it’s _right then and there_ that I know I’m absolutely fucked.

Not that I don’t think it’s cool to spend some extra time with a hot guy who seems to be flirting with me, definitely not _that_. Maybe it’s a little about being confined in a tiny red space with a man that probably has PTSD and might not deal well with unexpected situations. Maybe it’s about the perspective of missing a meeting with Disney producers that might mark forever my career; losing a full day of the coolest part of the job (discussing art, scenarios, costumes, color palettes and all that good stuff). Maybe…

Yeah, maybe I am a _little_ claustrophobic after all.

For good measure, my neighbor looks totally unbothered and, so far, there are no PTSD breakouts in the elevator (maybe there are; maybe someone’s having a panic attack in the elevator, but it’s certainly not my pretty neighbor). He also seems to understand I’m panicking a little, so he’s the one to move and select the emergency button. As I expected (the both of us, I guess), nothing really happens; the coms don’t work. I’d get my phone out, if it meant anything, but I don’t think the phone numbers I have on my mailing list would be helpful at all.

Again, it’s the neighbor who appears to have all the answers. He calls someone who doesn’t take long to pick up and in the silence on the elevator, I can hear how the quick conversation goes.

 _“The power is out in the whole city”._ Something to do with crazy vigilantes and strategic bombings, meaning that there’s no prevision of when the power is coming back – short to “ _oh ya stuck there for a while, my bad_ ” and I hate it. I purposefully left the house one hour before the meeting, just so I wouldn’t get there too early out of anxiety, but the stupid plan totally backfired. From that very second, minutes would flyby way quicker than they would have in a different situation; that is to say that I’d clearly miss the damn meeting.

–You have it all figured out.

His voice pipes up again, but this time, it’s apparently directed to me. _Figured out_? What exactly do I have figured out? _And wow_ , now that I’m back at it, why is he so tall? _Oh..._ Right. So I _might_ have unconsciously sat down in the floor during what _might_ have been a breakdown. Who knows?

–Yeah, I’m not really wearing the most expensive suit I own right now, so I don’t really feel bad about sitting on the not-so-dirty floor. –Not that I’m wearing a suit, to start with. In reality, it’s a rather cheap blue shirt that I bought at the mall paired with yellow pentacourt pants (a strangely cute combination that made me feel like Dory, from _Finding Nemo_ ). And considering the old ratty brown bag crossing my chest and the transparent binder, I might as well look like I don’t own an expensive suit at all. _I do_ have some.

–I guess my expensive suit can deal with a little bit of “not-so-dirty” floor. –Again, my blatant sarcasm didn’t seem to bother him at all, as the neighbor smiled down at me again and sat by my side, pocketing his phone. –My name is Billy, by the way.

–It’s very nice to meet you, neighbor. –I nodded and smiled at him once more (all this sass can’t take me anywhere). That is a really nice and expensive looking suit, very well fitted in a equally good looking guy, whom I’m stuck with not only in this elevator, but in the same floor until one of us decide to move the hell out of this building (probably me, seeing as I’m not really good at sticking to places). –And for the record, I’m not that bad. I just needed to do some reparations in the place and had some workers coming in.

–Reparations? They gave you the place all messed up? –By the frown that installs itself in his pretty face, he’s clearly assuming that the landlord gave me a broke apartment. It was far from that.

–Uh, no, not really… I turned the master suite into a studio, and then, I had to turn the guest room into the master suit.

–Studio?

–Yeah. I am a songwriter. –And I braced myself for the skeptical look or the poisonous smile; the one I usually receive whenever the rich people I interact with realize I don’t come from old money or am a celebrity (in their society, it’s the only way to be acceptable. People like me might have the money, but certainly don’t have connections, and that’s just poor). –And art director. I do more writing than directing, but that’s just circumstance.

–That’s a first. –Billy smiles and nods in my direction, as if he’s complimenting me. I mean. Now _that’s a first_. –Don’t think I ever met a songwriter before. I don’t know much about music, so I don’t really know how this thing works, but I’m going to take a wild guess.

–And you’ll probably be right… So yeah, there’s that. –I took the moment to decide how to proceed and confess about the disturbance I mostly cause to him. _That’s your neighbor, after all_. –I have a piano in each side of the penthouse. Guitars everywhere; I really have lots of instruments and speakers in almost every room. I play the whole day, every day, and sometimes during the night. I can be… _Very loud_. But I can totally tone down the playing-during-the-night thing and if you’re ever bothered, you can totally come over and ask me to stop. And the studio is soundproof, but it wasn’t professionally planned, so it’s not really good.

I can be loud, but also talk very quickly when I’m nervous. That he got in anything I said at all is already good, but the fact the he doesn’t really seems bothered by what I said is the actual shocker.

–So they were right after all: you’re not exactly quiet and peaceful.

–Yeah, you got me there.

–Don’t worry about it. I’m not always home, and I guess that I could use some music when I am. – _Smirking!_ That’s the word I’ve been looking for: smirking. It’s like he’s constantly smug about something, regardless or being genuinely nice to me. _Confident guy, wearing an expensive suit, fresh out of his penthouse apartment_ ; it’s not exactly a shocker or remotely out of place. It’s… Fitting. Like what the result of a marine that becomes a CEO would be, I think.

–Sure. And well… I don’t think your line of work can possibly get in my way somehow, but I heard you own a security company?

–Yes. Anvil does a lot of contracting, but we also do training, drills and most recently, P.I and missions.

Oh, there it is. That short, however very practical explanation is enough to send horrible pictures of blood, screams and gunshots into my mind; always overlooking and negative mind. In this goddamned city, chances are I’ll step out of the apartment right in time to watch as the neighbor leads some really dangerous people into our doorstep. New York is not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for those who are trying to get away from violence – _but here am I._

–Yeah, not to be offensive or something like that, but now _it_ _does_ sound like your job might get in my way. You don’t bring much work home, do you?

–Not if I can stop it. There’s nothing to worry about; that’s kind of the whole point. I keep people safe.

–If you say so, marine.

And there was this strangely comfortable silence that followed for some time that I can’t really determine – comfortable to some extent, as in the perspective of being hung in a elevator shaft wasn’t exactly pleasant, and that with the psychedelic red light shining against my eyes like a constant threat to give me a seizure. And the meeting – the godamm meeting that I’m definitely late to, by now.

And in the middle of my internal monologue, I can sense that Billy is saying something, but my brain can’t really place what. The deep, enticing voice is there, but no words are put together.

–What was that?

–Claustrophobic. –He pointed at me and threw his head back, as if he was trying to take my face in. –Are you claustrophobic? You look sick.

–I mean, you can see anything at all with the red light?

–It’s not that bad.

–Of course, marine. –I cut him short e nod back, although I’m not really sure why. –Not claustrophobic, I think... But I have a meeting and I’m not a fan of being stuck in spaces, especially the tiny ones.

–That’s… That’s pretty much the definition of claustrophobia. Would you feel better if I moved to the other s…

–I am not… I’m… I just need to get out of here, so I’ll be back at it.

–That’s the whole problem: we’re not getting out anytime soon. –He said that very clearly, and I guess it was the first time I took a look at myself and realized how stupid this probably looks like for him. –I think you’ll feel like you have more space if I move to the other side.

And just like that, I no longer have a beautiful and charmingly intimidating man sitting by my side, but his idea is… It’s actually very good. It really seems like I have more space and it is way less overwhelming (although I hate to admit it. I’m claustrophobic; I don’t want to be). So apparently my neighbor, the marine CEO, is actually pretty good at taking care of people, although I’m pretty sure the “taking care” he mostly does involves shots and death. A lot of fun.

–Thank you. –It’s low enough to be a whisper, but there’s no way he can’t hear it. 

–It’s ok. –I can see that Billy is shrugging, a relaxed expression printed onto his now red face (I must really be overreacting). Moving over to the side doesn’t mean much, considering that the elevator isn’t big at all. His body is for feet away from mine, at best, but it’s still close enough. –Don’t worry about that meeting. If this is what I think it is, I’m sure whoever you’re seeing won’t make it to the streets either.

–You’re talking about the bombings?

–That too. –He nodded and looked at his own hands, as if something was supposed to be placed there. A gun, perhaps. Oh, god... –I’m pretty sure this is going to be a hellish day of work.

–Well, good luck with that. –I tried to salute (and I don’t even know which hand you should use) and offered a sympathetic smile. Training, security, missions and investigation: I bet the Anvil crew is having fun today. That, besides their boss being stuck in a elevator with me. –It sucks to lose or post-pan this meeting again. I’m writing and directing art for this new musical Disney is trying to produce, but I can’t go far if all I got so far are emails and pieces of the script.

–Sounds like you need a drink. –He said that with a charming smile, although the kind eyes were still there, apparently searching for something that I can’t quite place.

–I’m not big on alcohol, to be honest with you. –I smiled back and closed my eyes. It’s way better, not being able to see the red lights; they are disturbing. –But you’re right, I might need a drink.

–I’d do the honor of helping you if I didn’t have to run off to work the moment these doors are open.

–Understandable, marine. –I nod once again, trying to fight a smile of my face. He’s either flirting or is just really nice, and I happen to enjoy both options. –I have red wine waiting for me in the counter, anyway.

–So you’re good.

And that conversation was supposed to stop there. My poorly developed social skills aren’t good enough for long term interactions with people I can’t talk business with, but for some reason, Billy’s charming personality keeps me – _us_ talking.

He’s surprised to know that I just came in town (apparently, I have little to no accent) and I’m surprised to learn that he’s not as much of a snob as I would have figured. No adorned words, no fluttering, no bullshit… From what Billy briefly said, he grew up in orphanages and foster homes, then became a marine and lastly, built Anvil. He’s not from old money, that’s for sure, and this perspective makes me like him a little more (all that with essentially poor people distrusting rich people, for what it’s worth).

And we keep talking, talking, talking… He “wants” to know about that thing I’m directing, I want to know about his company, about the city, about the building, the landlord, his opinions on printed ties… Yeah, I told you about the poorly developed social skills.

And I’m _so_ , so late to that stupid fucking meeting. There’s absolute no service, which means no way of telling anyone about being stuck or receiving any cancelation calls, so we just sit there for one or two more hours, talking more and more random non sense (if I were any better at this, I would have flirted my way out of this elevator, but my blob fish like personality isn’t helpful at all) until he phone rings again.

I try not to pry on whatever he’s talking about, but considering I get the impression that Billy is the kind of man that has lots of contacts and information, I get my hopes up that he’s getting more info about what is happening around the city – and how in the hell he’s got service?

But the voice in the other side isn’t loud enough to hear, from where I’m sitting. His words aren’t better than cryptic, so it doesn’t give me any clues, but I get the name “Madani” being thrown somewhere. By the scarce context I have, she either works with him or is something of a police officer (I have no idea about how these ranks work in this city).

When the call is finally over, my neighbor has a strange look on his face, like his charming posture is being forcefully put together. I’m not good with people, but I can tell there’s something wrong and I don’t want to be part of that.

–We’re getting out of here in a minute. –Billy tilts his head in my direction and tucks his phone somewhere in the suit; I try not to look. With my lack of response (or, apparently, understanding), he goes back to explaining. –They need me somewhere, so my friends are getting us out now.

–Your friends? And they can, like… Just do it?

He doesn’t answer, but the smile that creeps it’s way into his face very pointedly says “Well, that’s a dumb question”, so I don’t press any further and just sink lower into the ground. I’m terrible with people, I’m terrible _with men_ , I’m terrible _at not being_ stupid _._

I don’t really know how it happens, but it’s like there’s something in me that stops people (mostly men) as viewing me as attractive person they’d flirt with – it always ends with the brotherly like relationship.

 _It wasn’t always like that_ , but considering the only and last time it didn’t happen, I’d rather not count it in at all.

True to his word, it doesn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes for some loud noises to startle us on the outside. I don’t want to stress enough about what they’re doing to forcefully open the doors, but it’s hard not to flinch at the loud screeching noises that they cause (ok, I might have closed my eyes through the whole process, imagining the elevator collapsing into the shaft).

When the doors are finally open (or partially so), the elevator is still three feet above the ground, so we need to hop out of it; I do it gladly.

There are three people waiting for us on the other side: this huge black dude that apparently has a prosthetic leg, an stoic and tough looking guy wearing camo pants and this intimidating however beautiful curly haired woman. So for all I know, my neighbor has a strange set of friends (so far, he’s doing way better than me, seeing as I still haven’t made a single friend in this godamm city) that need him for something.

Camo-pants-guy has a gun attached on his hip, so maybe I don’t really want to know what is it they’re up to right now.

–Got unlucky for once, Russo? –Curly doesn’t smile at all, but something about her _almost_ passive face and Billy’s smile tells me that they’re just bickering at each other.

–Not at all. This is my neighbor Y/N, anyway. –Billy says and tilts his head in my direction, folding his arms. –Y/N, these are my friends. Madani, Frank and Curtis.

–Bad circumstance, but it’s nice to meet you. –I try to say with a smile, but their response doesn’t help all. I mean, the guy I suppose is Curtis smiled back, but Madani and Frank appear to be terribly stoic and intimidating (and that doesn’t work well with my easily scared, jumpy brain).

–Ignore the sunshines. –I can see Billy is rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t stay put for longer. –Well, this is still the fifth floor, so we need to get down and get going. Y/N, it was nice to finally meet you, but I have to… Well....

And then the dumbass just went for the stairs like I didn’t have to go through them as well, followed close behind by his friends, who barely nodded in my direction as they went. I still had the decency to not run down the stairs with them and just stayed way behind, avoiding any more awkward situations. _Godammit_ , I had forgotten how much I hate drama – this is _so_ not the reason why I came into this city. _Goddam fucking elevator – godamm neighbor._


	2. quiet incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I came back YAY. I wrote a little bit more - here is another chapter

The neighbor is so silent it seems like he’s a godamm cat, but his… Uh… _Companion_ , isn’t very subtle – she’s loud; _so, so_ _loud_.

After all, his bedroom shares a wall with my studio (it should have been my bedroom as well, so after all, the changes I made in the apartment were for the best) and ended up getting the worst part of his happy night activities: the screams and high pitched moans from whoever stepped into his bed for the night.

The whole situation made me end my work earlier and go to bed with headphones on, playing anything in the last volume and pretending the sounds weren’t audible at all (I guess it’s a little embarrassing).

It was only a Thursday, followed by Friday and Saturday (mind me telling you that every woman sounded different from the previous night). Every single one of them loud as hell, being the only indication I ever got that my neighbor was alive and _well_ in his apartment.

Besides that, I didn’t get much in: he’s incredibly quiet, especially when there’s no one else in his company. I might have heard a couple doors being opened and closed during the week, but that’s as far as it goes (not considering the woman that came in Wednesday, in the afternoon). Those are incredibly loud women or we just happen to have the thinnest walls of all times.

That means he’s probably capable of listening to me. I’m always playing and singing, after all: I don’t know any other way to write music, and I’m always making and stashing songs so I have something ready to sell or adapt for other people. There’s no way the sex crazed marine didn’t listen to me at all times – I’m not exactly loud while moving around the apartment, but I don’t spare high notes and playing that grand piano. I only go to the studio when I have something ready to work on, but when I am at the studio, that means I’m singing right by his bed.

And yes, I felt pretty much guilty about it, but every time the feeling hits me, I try to recall the screams that fill the whole floor during the night because of _him –_ I don’t feel so guilty anymore; it becomes paying a debt.

But again, he’s so quiet I can’t even tell if there’s anyone inside, so I just pretend I’m always alone and keep playing; keep writing. To be honest, I even grow to be a little annoyed by his antics, but I keep telling myself that it isn’t right to judge someone’s active sexual life. _So not right_.

The days go on, I keep working.

That meeting didn’t really happen, after all: I just had to sit down there with the staff and other residents until the power came back, in the afternoon. The thing took place in the following day, and it had been a hellish day. Pleasing, but hellish day nevertheless. There was a lot to discuss and a lot of visuals to display, and adding to the submeetings with other professionals to talk scenarios, costume and make up (it was a Disney musical about a lost princess in New York, so you can get the whole picture).

And that was a lot of work, but the most stressing part was the first week, since that was the time span in which I had to gather a profound and detailed research about art and inspirations for many aspects of what I would be working on – lots of history for the bit or the movie where she’d be at her actual reign, as in I’d have to design a historically accurate scenario, pick a color palette to go with it and draw at least five costumes for two or three different characters, to set a mood for the scenes.

Actually building, sewing, painting and putting the actors in place to shoot is definitely not the hardest part of the whole process of shooting a movie, but they’ll tell you otherwise.

Anyway, I did the thing. Did it and delivered like a boss, and then spent the whole night drawing costumes away with two fashion designers that seemed to want to drain all the life and creativeness out of my body (and they got close to doing just that).

It was 5a.m. when I managed to go home, looking and feeling destroyed, but certainly victorious and needing a drink to finish off and go to bed. That’s why midway home I stopped by the liquor store and drank two bottles of beer by the door, like a creep. The effects didn’t kick in right away, so I got one more bottle to finish on my way home – I did it and felt pretty great about it.

I felt stellar while it lasted, but by the time I reached the elevator and it started to go up, my body started to process the bad effects of drinking three bottles of beer in a empty stomach and absolute no sleep for the past couple days.

Stepping out of the elevator, our ever so thin walls granted me the honor of listening to a screaming match that seemed to come (and it could only be) from my neighbor’s apartment. Billy doesn’t sound angry or anything, but the woman he’s paired seems to be beyond furious.

–AMY?!

–IT WAS A MISTAKE! I KNOW YOUR NAME’S ASHLEY!

–MY N… WHAT?! MY NAME’S AMARA!

And yeah, the realization of what that whole thing was about was enough to make me actually chuckle (a first around here, I’d say). I honestly thought this “forgetting your one night stand’s name in the following morning” was a thing created solely for books and romantic comedies, so seeing that happening with my beautiful manwhore neighbor was amusing, if I’m being honest.

Usually, I try not to pry in anyone’s lives and just take care of my own, but something about being slightly drunk, tired and entertained by their discussion made me just stay still and listen, trying not to laugh too loud.

Soon enough, the fight got closer and closer to the door and I honestly braced myself to face a furious woman being thrown out of his apartment, but the picture was spun around: something blonde and angry pushed Billy out of his own apartment and flung the door closed, very audibly locking it down.

He doesn’t take longer than a second to realize I’m standing there, staring. For his credit, Billy seems to be very calm and not startled at all, and his posture plays a part in me not feeling embarrassed about being caught prying (maybe he’s used to this).

–Bad morning? –It’s the first thing that comes out of my mouth, as I take in his shirtless self, wearing sweatpants that clearly have been shrugged on as quickly as one can.

–And you? Walk of shame? –He talks back with a smirk on his pretty face, probably assuming my disheveled clothes and drained looking face are the result of a crazy night out plus mind blowing hook up (and oh, _I wish_ ).

–Hey, I was working! –I point at him with what I hope to be seemingly warning eyes, but I’m not good enough with alcohol to know whether I’m doing it right or not. –But maybe I drank a little right after.

–Hey, I’m not judging, it’s not like it’s my place to do that. –He shots back a smile and puts his hands up mockingly, indicating his own locked door.

–Oh, I know that, I’ve been hearing your girls screaming like I’m the one sleeping with them since last week. –The horrible words leave my mouth before my brain can even digest them, and I said it too quick and well-assured to take them back. Somehow, instead of being offended, the neighbor starts laughing out loud like what I said wasn’t just terribly invasive and embarrassing for the two of us. –I’m so sorry! That was so invasive, oh my god! My mind’s not right!

–It’s completely fine.

–Damn, I’m not right… Listen… I guess you’re going to be stuck out here for a hot minute. –I try to look into his eyes while I make the invitation, but it’s just hard. His incredibly dark eyes seem to over analyze every aspect of my figure (and he probably is), judging and marking up side notes. –So if you want breakfast, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. Omelet, I guess.

–Omelet?

–Hell yes.

–Then lead the way, ma’am.

I imagined it would feel more awkward to be in his intimidating presence while I move around the kitchen and gather the ingredients to make the simplest food I know. Simple, safe and good: omelet.

I’m not even sure why I called him in – if it’s because I felt nervous, bad about my words or actually wanted his company, but I know he’s here, anyway, moving along with me. Billy offered to make the coffee while I prepared the omelets, and my tired and drunk self couldn’t bring herself to deny, so I just showed him around and we started our routine.

And the thing is that it feels perfectly fine. Having his constant – quiet, but constant presence moving beside me is kind of comforting. It’s rather nice, after being completely alone in the city for so long, talking to myself and watching over my shoulders to scare off ghosts, possibly.

Eggs, tomato, onion, cheese, chiver, coriander, a little salt and pure talent are the ingredients to make my infamous omelet; those are, in fact, the first thing that I ever perfected in the kitchen, being the food that basically kept me alive for ages. And my cat-like neighbor is pouring coffee in the matching back mugs right by my side, when he goes back to a subject that I’d rather have him forget.

–I’ll try to… Tone down, if you’d like. –My slowed down brain needs a couple seconds to understand what he’s talking about, but once I do, there’s a shift in my face that makes me think I’m either blushing too hard or all the blood rushed out; no in between.

– _Oh_ … You see, if you _did that_ , I would feel super guilty about playing, because I’m doing that all the time. So It would be a lot of hypocrisy to ask you to be quiet in the couple hours in which you’re clearly making something out of your life, while I’m bothering you the whole day.

–Are you serious?

–I’m drunk, but I’m dead serious. Hey, at least one of us is getting some. –I shrug and start moving the pan around, as the omelet started solidifying in the pan. I’m not the best with words, when I’m talking to other humans. I’m either too bland and cold blooded or absolutely shy, and I can’t tell which is less practical.

–So… You’re ok with hearing me having sex, because I’m ok with hearing your music? You realize that it’s actually really pleasant to hear you play, don’t you? –His tone is clearly uncertain, like I’m sounding real stupid for a second (and I might be).

–That’s… Makes things seem uneven, but I guess it’s not so much fun when I start playing fucking cello in the studio while you’re sleeping in the other side of the wall.

–Ok, that was a little unsettling, but not bad enough to keep me awake. I slept, eventually. –Billy pointed at me with raised eyebrows, picking up his mug and taking a sip. Blazing black coffee, huh? Like a godamm psycho…

–Of course you fell asleep. Right after I stopped playing, isn’t that right? –I point back with a smile and he smiles back as an answer.

 _God_ , such a pretty smile!

–Yeah, I’m not going to criticize the woman who took me in and is making me breakfast.

–Wise man, but feel free to criticize. People who just nod along are kinda boring. –I shrug once more, taking the pan off the stove and going for the two plates that he settled down.

–Nice.

–I know it is, there’s no way of getting this one wrong. –It’s what I say, although I’m fully aware that he’s talking about the “critique” thing, rather than my fabulous omelet. –Now sit and eat, marine.

Billy doesn’t answer, but I’m met with another one of those devilish smirks of his that I can’t quite decipher. He grabs his plate and mug to set them in the countertop and slides into one of the stools. Moving in, I never considered having company or more than one person visiting me, so I never thought about getting a dinner table and matching chairs – instead, I got a dozen stools for the rather large countertop that would definitely do the trick.

We ate in silence; besides the moment in which I schooled Billy in how chiver and coriander can completely change the flavor of a dish. Other than that, it was just quiet and comfortable. After we ate, I sobered up considerably and motioned to the living room, where I’d happily throw myself in the couch until my mind was ready for bed. I guess.

–You weren’t joking about all the instruments. –He says taking in all the mess I usually make out of my living room. –And you paint, too?

I do. Not in the past week or so; I didn’t have time. But a little before that, I did paint a lot. Painting is one more of my depressing and exhausting habits that I keep going on about because I know how to do it and helps drain all the excessive feelings out of my mind, but it isn’t something I live off. Sure, I put them up in galleries and exhibitions every once in a while, but it’s not part of my career. It’s more like something that takes too much space, but I don’t want to get rid of.

The last one I made was supposed to be a look of the rainy city through wet glass windows. Painting the buildings blurred silhouettes was the easy part, making up the tiny droplets one by one was the maddening bit, but I finished that one – I just didn’t have time and motivation the clean up the space and put the paint and  brushes away.

–It’s just a hobby. Sit the hell down. –I motion to the couch in front of the one I’m trying to lay down at. –There’s not a lot of company around here, so I go nuts in the things I do. I’ve been working like crazy in the past weeks, but I guess it’s better than just doing nothing.

–You made all of these? –Billy nods along and finally looks back at me, pointing at the painting above the couch and the other one above the grand piano, probably noticing my tiny yellow signature in every one of them.

–Yup. This is supposed to be my grandmother cleaning up fish in her old kitchen. The one by the piano is the sky from my childhood bedroom window. I guess it looks like a mix of blue, pink and white cotton candy, but it’s supposed to be the sky.

–It’s actually really good. The one you made of your grandmother looks like an actual picture. –It looks like he’s smiling, but I’m not good with receiving compliments, so I just mutter “thank you” as low as I can and keep staring at the ceiling.

He eventually sets himself in the other couch, laying down as well. That’s one hell of a confident man, if anything. Sure of himself and pretty much comfortable in his own skin, as it seems – confident enough to not shy away when the subject is his sexual life or being shirtless in a stranger’s house.

I hope to be just like that, _one day_.

–I know nothing about art and this kind of stuff, but you’re good.

–Seriously? You don’t know anything about art, anything about music… Don’t rich men take pride in being pretentious and all that?

Billy barks a laugh at that, once again, appearing to think that my sassy comments are hilarious – and his laugh sounds really nice, by the way. But I don’t know, my mind isn’t processing the world fast enough for me to be sure about anything here.

–I try to only be pretentious in my field; other than that, I’d just be making a fool of myself.

–And your field is… Security stuff? I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about the marines, just that you guys go overseas and most of you have PTSD; no offense, by the way.

–None taken. –He waves off the concern, laughing once more at my terrible choice of words. –Depends on where and what exactly you’re working with. I was a sniper scout in the Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance; I left after my fourth tour. That means a lot of killing, if that’s what you were wondering.

–I really wasn’t, but it’s cool you shared. I know what your moans sound like, it’s only right I get a bit of your dark backstory too. –I said that with a tight chest, hoping that once again he’d think it was funny rather than offensive (nothing else really came to my mind after the realization that my neighbor clearly has lots of confirmed kills, which mostly means he’s probably mentally unstable, whether because of PTSD or not).

And once again, his laugh echoes in the silent room, and looking closely, I can see the way his chest moves with it (but I don’t look for longer than three of four seconds, because staring is rude and I’ve already done my fair share of t for the time being).

–You’re absolutely right… But yeah, that’s what I can be pretentious about. Weaponry, killing, training, security, and economy. It’s completely different from what you do, but I guess we all have our calling.

As he says that, something in the back of my mind is pushing me to say that no one’s true calling is fighting and killing, but I decide to save my words for myself. This is literally the second time I ever met this man; he might be proud of it, or defensive. And for what is worth, I don’t know if I want to raise some tension in between me and my obviously dangerous neighbor. So far, I like how things are: a friendly guy who’ll come in every once in a while and keep me company.  Perhabs a… Friend? I know I need one.

–Believe me, this is not as bad of a impression.

–Yeah, I forgot about that thing. I’ll tone d…

–I told you I’ll feel really bad about it! –Sitting down, I can see more clearly the way his face changes with a smile. –I’m loud all the time! It’s fine, I’m telling you. A little different from what I mostly hear, but it’s alright.

–Maybe I could introduce you to a friend of mine? –Billy offers with a smirk, even though he looks very genuine about it. –So I’m not the only one “making something out of my life”.

–Damn, you have a really good memory…

–I do. So… What do you say? I know a lot of guys, as you can imagine.

And that can only be right. Russo was a marine: there has to be a lot of men – hot men around him. And that’s not considering Anvil, the company that probably works with too many things I’d rather not know about. However, being “arranged” has never been my thing, and while my taste in men isn’t to be fully trusted, I’m not into trusting anyone else as well.

–This is… From far, the weirdest conversation I ever had with a stranger, Billy. –I was almost going back down, until his idea popped out; from his words, I was still propping myself up with my elbows. Laying down on the other side, Billy still looks completely at ease as if this is his own place (what’s this with confident men? I guess that’s what happens when you’re rich, badass and beautiful at the same time – I can’t relate).

–Hey! You said it yourself: you heard me having sex and I heard you singing about a lot of personal stuff, it’s like I’ve known you for weeks. It’s only right that I get in the rest of your business as well. –The playful tone is still there, but his words are very much correct. Our thin walls really built for us a ridiculous intimate relationship that neither of us really wanted to start with.

–I’m so not letting you pick me a one night stand so we get even, Billy. Thanks for the offer, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll let you know if I ever bring anyone home.

–Ok, you’re right. This is one hell of a weird conversation in between neighbors.

–It’s your fault, you know that. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t forget Amara’s name and got kicked out _barely_ covering your own dick. –And with that I dropped myself back in the couch, trying to hide a smirk.

–I’m in sweatpants!

–And I’m positive that if I look close enough, I can make something out of it, but I’m not going to do that because it’s not polite.

–Wow, you’re so nice, Y/N. I’m so happy that we live together. –His voice is dripping with sarcasm as he says that, but it’s playful enough to be incredibly nice to hear them.

We kind of… Live together, if you think about it. Like two people living in the same house, but that never stay in the same room together (and for all I know, that’s how most marriages work after twenty five or thirty years). So I guess we live together, yeah.

–Of course, marine.

I can’t really remember what happens after that; to be honest, my mind was already clouding up by the time those words left my mouth. I’m pretty sure he said more things after that, but I have no memory of it at all – I’m barely aware of dozing off, until my eyes open very suddenly and I realize that it’s already dark and I probably slept for hours.

Somewhere in the middle of our weird conversation I must have fell asleep and left the neighbor talking alone (and no, I don’t need to hear about how ridiculous this is). A quick look around the place shows me that Billy is nowhere to be seen, and a few beats after that, a door being opened and closed in the other apartment is enough to let me know that he already made his way back into his own place (despite Amara, the poor furious woman).

And oh, this is a new low even for me. For all he knows, I’m just incredibly pathetic and noisy as fuck.

I didn’t drink enough to be hangover, but it was enough to make my organism feel like shit as I woke up in the dark and disgustingly warm room (all these damn windows have been closed since I left for work yesterday morning). Turning the lights on, the mess I made of it starts to make me anxious – I need to take that painting somewhere else, put the paint and brushes away, wash the brushes for once, throw out all the newspaper I left in the ground, put the instruments back in their places, perhaps sweep and mop the floor and then put my clothes in the washing machine. After I’m done doing all that and shower, I might as well pretend that I deserve a pizza and order one (who knows). So that’s pretty much what happens during the night.

Later on, when I open the door to get the delivery, I still can see as a redhead walks into my neighbor’s apartment wearing a golden shiny dress – and for that alone I know I’m not using the studio today. To be more precise, that’s to say I’m going to play piano in the living room with headphones on all night.


	3. three times I've had enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hi! I know, I know - I haven't posted in ages, yes. It's just that it has been Carnaval here in Brazil and I didn't have enough time to finish, proof read, post and all of the good stuff. To be honest, I don't think I'm sober enough to have delivered something good (which, by the way, would have been bad no matter what. I don't think this was particularly good).  
> But, hm... I had fun, got some cool earings, got mad at people and kissed this guy I met in the front of a closed cachaça kiosk while being drenched in glitter and rhinestones - therefore, I had a good Carnaval. And like every other good thing, it is over and I'm here to deliver. So yeah. Hope no one is mad at me!

The neighbor doesn’t really bother me anymore. We’re both loud and inconvenient, but we learned how to work around our schedules so it’s not so bad. I get creative around 9p.m. and Billy’s only ever bringing girls over two or three hours after that. Sometimes in the morning, but during this period of time in which I’m producing the musical, I’m hardly ever at home during the morning.

Other than that, I pretend I can’t listen to the shady conversations he has with equally shady people that pop there and Billy pretends he doesn’t listen to occasional breakdowns of mine.

Basically, we just mind our business and go on with our lives. I mean – is it a little creepy when I hear guns cocking? Yeah, sure. Do I end my business early and rush back to my bedroom whenever the conversation topics involve murder and shady people? Of fucking course!

I don’t even want to think about what that’s all about, I just want to live my life out of his range and hope for the best – so far, it has worked.

That is.

Billy Russo started pushing the godamm line.

1.

I’m not new to his verbal fights, but the son of a bitch is too loud when he wants to scare someone into submission. It had been thirty minutes in the phone, I guess, and the shit show didn’t sound like it was going down anytime soon. Something that involved his job and some mess, and Billy was mad about some dumb people making some dumb mistakes (those are way nicer words, by the way). But again, I figured that I’d back off and wait so I could go and play the grand piano (there were some ideas on my mind).

It took an hour, I think. Long enough for me to have a migraine by the time I sat down and played the first tile, but it wasn’t enough to make me give up. By the time that fucking call ended, I wholeheartedly wanted to sit and play really fucking loud. Bust some Rachmaninoff or Ludovico Einaudi, maybe cover Adele and the Weather Girls, go full on gospel and even hire a coral – I wanted revenge on that loud and tall seven year old.

Unfortunately, my dumb brain didn’t allow me to be mean for too long, so I ended up working. This nice melody came out of my musical rant; a solo that I made up in the middle of Sinner Man, that I ended up playing for so long that became it’s own thing.

The kind of thing I don’t really sell to anybody and just keep to myself until I gather the time, patience and motivation to properly write it down and record.

It was a nice exchange, after all. These past weeks have been a handful of work with designers and architects, the sound mixing crew, and the other song writers. So I figured that coming home at 7p.m., I’d be able to shower my bad feelings off, get a pizza and drink the old bottle of cold wine that I keep in the fridge for special recipes while I played something light on the piano – Clair de Lune by Debussy or La Campanella by Liszt. I’d treat _ourselves_ to that.

But my low expectations pipe dream drowned on the beach as I got out of the fucking elevator to be met with my neighbor screaming like hell from his apartment, which is something that has been happening with quite the frequency, nowadays. Naturally, I decided to spare the delivery guy the stress and just pushed down old bread with the wine, waiting for the screaming to cease so I could stop hiding, sit and play.

Fast forward to midnight, when I already have the whole thing written down, affectionately named it Graveyard Grey and started making up the lyrics, I can hear Billy’s door being popped open, on the other side of the wall. The first thought that comes to my mind is something along the lines of “not again, no!”.

 Russo also sounds a little weird on the other side – apparently, hoping around and flipping things, like he’s looking for something. For the first couple minutes I’m ok with it and just keep trying to write, but all of his very audible fidgeting on the other side stresses me out of it.

He finally _did it_. I’m pretty sure we had worse days, but this one is rubbing me off the wrong way and all I want is for him to quiet down for solid fifteen minutes, before I completely give up and go to bed with the song unfinished.

So I actually take my phone out of the pocket and look for the number I saved a week ago – this has to stop.

 

_“You’re a little jumpy today, marine?”_

The answer comes in twenty minutes, while I’m still sitting in the piano bench in the very same position I’ve been in for the past couple hours, my back hurting a little.

_“Is this y/n y/l/n?”_

_“Yes it is, and no, I don’t mind that you didn’t save my number”_

_“Ok, I deserve that. And also, I’m sorry for all the screaming earlier: things have gotten a little out of control today”_

_“Cool. But what’s up with you? It’s like you’re on abstinence and just lost a pill on a furry carpet”_

_“Y/n? What exactly are you talking about?”_

_“About you, of course. You’ve been beating things left and right for like half an hour now”_

That’s more or less where the conversation starts getting weird in between us - and my nerves, buzzing louder and louder and he types back an answer.

_“Y/n, are your doors locked? I’d like you to check them right now._

_And back to your room after that”_

And you see, I haven’t had a man bossing me around since I left my father’s house at fifteen and moved into my grandma’s place. This isn’t, obviously, the only thing that bothers me about that message. I wonder how out of control things have been with the neighbor nowadays – _hella_ , apparently. I also consider the guns I’ve always pictured stashed somewhere along with maybe a grenade inside that apartment. Oh, all that and a crazy fuck stumbling around in the place. _Oh no, no, no_ , that can’t do.

_“Y/n?”_

For anger and shock value, I don’t send anything back as I skip my way to the balcony doors (that I guess can be jumped into from his own – funny, huh?). They’re closed, but not locked; a problem that I solve in a second, also shutting the curtains and then checking the door. I know everything is locked, but I still check the kitchen door and the back balcony as well. By the time I skip back to my bedroom, my ever so impatient neighbor gives up on furiously texting and starts calling.

_–Where are you?_

_–Locking my bedroom, why is that?_

_–Why didn’t you text back?_

_–Because you’re a dumbass and I’m mad at you! What happened to “the whole point of your job being keeping people safe”? I’ve had a terrible day you gave me a fucking migraine and now I need to drop my work and lock myself in the closet because someone broke into your apartment!_

_–Y/n…_

_–Now that I said the last part out loud, I started to realize I’m not the actual victim here, but I’m still mad. Billy, you better be on your way right the fuck now to solve this or I’m calling the police._

_–Don’t call the police. And I’m halfway there._

_–Don’t tell me what to do! You don’t get to do that! What you need to do is get here and then working on keeping your mouth shut!_

_–Don’t leave your room. I’m close. –_ Sounding as calm and collected as one could be, that stone cold bitch.

So what if I’m a little harsh? Weeks of incessant screaming followed by eminent danger doesn’t really make me feel bad about it. To be honest, offense flows out of my mouth at an incredible ease when I’m pissed off (which, by the way, doesn’t happen much. That fucker really did this time – Russo reached all the way up to the sky and shot down the line he wasn’t supposed to cross).

True to his word, I hear aggravated noises on the other side of the floor within ten minutes. I definitely don’t get out of bed to check in (I’m not that kind of dumb), but I stay still with the phone in hands, 911 dialed down already. Let’s be honest, it’s not like I can do something about it. The sounds are muffled from here, but I can tell nothing nice is happening there. Getting in the middle isn’t going to help anybody and, really? I don’t really want to go out and face a violent intruder. Thanks but no, that’s not my business.

My heart is jumping up and down while I wait, perhaps holding onto the phone too hard and shaking a little. How qualified is that man again? I’m pretty sure we talked about his confirmed kills at some point, so this better end soon – and it does. The symphony of grunts and weird noises eventually cease, in a way that I could hear a feather drop in any part of the floor. The absolute silence carries itself for more five minutes, until my phone beeps with a new message from Billy.

_“Everything’s fine. But maybe don’t leave your apartment”_

_“What do you mean?”_

Billy doesn’t answer. At all. I even consider stepping out of the bedroom and eavesdropping in the living room’s wall, but convince myself to stay put.

Honestly? I don’t think I really want to know. Oh, If the screaming returns later? It does, and as the time goes by, more voices are added to the match. Buy I don’t care – I don’t leave the bed. I’m still so fucking mad at him.

2.

He does it again. The “getting me caught in the middle of his bullshit” thing – It ends up being a frequent occurrence in between us.

Now this time, the horror starts by the time the elevator door’s slide open and I unknowingly step out of it, only then realizing that the whole floor is covered in blood. Now, although the blood doesn’t really reach my doors, it is definitely flowing that way and it smells. Billy’s door is still open, but I don’t see any signs of him inside.

–RUSSO! –I allow myself to scream as loud as my throat can take it, not daring to take a single step into the blood. –BILLY RUSSO!

Three people rush to the door at that: Billy, the poorly humored woman that I’ve met the other time and another blonde woman, the three of them looking equally freaked out (but I won’t give them this privilege).

–Y/n, I can explain t…

–Stop. Stop, stop, stop! Stop right there, it’s making me angrier. Why in the fucking world this place looks like Carrie’s prom dress? –And it does. There’s blood everywhere, including in their hands and faces.

–My friend F…

–Don’t tell me! I don’t want to be involved in your bullshit again, Russo! Should I call the police?

–No! Listen! This is from my buddy Frank, he’s inside…

–Cool. Don’t finish. I don’t want to know. How am I even supposed to…

–Y/n, you need to calm down so I can explain this…

–No! I’m not getting in the middle of this one! But we’re going to try this again, ok? I’m going to back the fuck down, stop by a restaurant so I can have ok dinner and drink, and by the time I come back here I want this place to be so fucking clean I’ll think _this right here_ was an hallucination. Do you understand?

They don’t look exactly pleased with my threat, specially the intimidating curly haired woman, but Billy has the decency to nod and look down. Great.

–I’m sor…

–Don’t talk to me, this is a hallucination. –I cut Billy off before he can talk any further and call the elevator so I can step back in.

Shame is not something that I have ever seen on his face before, and it surely is a terrible, pathetic look that I don’t want to see ever again.

True to my word, I step into the first restaurant I see, after wandering around the streets for twenty minutes. I eat a huge plate of pasta with half a bottle of wine, stay put there for plus thirty minutes, watching a terrible soap opera in the TV they have there and only then, I make my way back home through a unnecessary longer way.

By the time I come back, his doors are closed and the blood is completely gone, despite the floor still being wet.

 _Good_.

That night in particular is very much silent, but I don’t have the guts to make any noises myself. In this very particular situation, I just shower and launch myself in the bed, going to sleep naked at 7p.m.

 _Hm_. I hate my neighbor.

 

3.

It happens again. This time, there’s a full bloody handprint on my kitchen door and Billy is rushing out of his apartment before I even open my mouth (honestly, I didn’t even consider doing it).

It had been the first week of shooting and while most of my hard work was done, I still had to be there to make sure that everything was being built and put together the way they were supposed to be. Needless to say, I was just as tired and after coming home after midnight, I wanted to simply ignore the bloody handprint and pass out in an actual bed.

–I swear…

–I’m so tired.

–I’m going to clean that. –Billy points at the door and starts walking cautiously in my direction, as if I’m a dangerous animal.

–Cool, man. I don’t even care. Are you even… I mean… Are you doing bad stuff? Like crimes and all that? Because if you are, just hit me up so I can move the hell out of this place and leave you to it; I really don’t care about it.

–No! No, no, you don’t have to do that. These past weeks have been a little too crazy, that’s all. This is officially the last day of chaos, actually. If you turn on the news right now, they’re probably still talking about Anderson and Eliza Schultz arrest.

–Cool. That’s really cool. I don’t who they’re supposed to be, but I’m happy this is over. I’m having some hectic days and this isn’t helping, so I guess I’ve been kind of a bitch to you. And I’m not going to apologize; there’s still a bloody handprint on my door, but… It’s fine.

–It’s fine, yeah. But I’m supposed to make it up to you. –He offers with a shrug, walking past me and raising a wet cloth to the door.

–No, not at all, Russo.

–Yes, I am. Dinner? Drinks?

–I eat like an animal and I only ever drink when I’m alone and helpless.

–Sounds like you lead an incredibly depressing life. –Billy turns with a smile, still rubbing the handprint of my door. And oh, it’s so hard to not think that he looks like a straight up psycho. Tall beautiful murderer, confidently wiping blood off my door.

–I do.

–Lovely… But I don’t want to give up on this one. Please let me take you somewhere so we can talk and I can get you to not hate forever thinking that I’m some sort of creep.

–You’re right, I’ve been hating you for a while now and I definitely think you’re a creep. I’d really like to call the cops on you, and now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know if you’re trying to get rid of my body or what. You’re a white man, Russo, of course I’m suspicious of you! And I do eat like an animal.

–Thanks for the honesty, I guess. –He turns again, living the door perfectly clean and still smiling at me. –But I’m not trying to get rid of your body, I’m just trying to prove I’m not a dick.

–Well, you started off the wrong way… I’m not... Ok, listen, I don’t want to go anywhere, but you can get pizza and wine and we can watch the news. And I’ll be holding a knife at all times, so if you even think about getting close to me, I’m sliding it into your eye. Understood?

–Deal.

–Good. I’m going to shower. See you in thirty minutes or one hour; I don’t know, do your magic.

I take one unnecessarily long shower at that. A long, blazing hot shower that cooks my flesh and burns my skin as I try to rub off depression with karité butter soap and glitter body gel (it never works, but I like the smell and shining a little). I also put on old pajamas and long pink socks.

I’m trying to intimidate Russo the best way I can: scaring him with my lack of grace. The less I care, the better it is.

And again… This is not an ideal situation. I know nothing about that man, other than the fact that he’s been involved in a lot of shit and is constantly spilling blood on our floor (and I don’t even know whose blood that is). So is it the smartest decision to let him in? To be honest, it wouldn’t be the worst decision I’ve ever made with men – I met others who were equally creepy, but were way less pretty and successful.

So I open the door when he eventually knocks.

Somehow, it’s as if we had the same idea. Billy shows up with a bottle of wine under his arm and holding the pizza box, wearing sweatpants a faded grey shirt that looks strangely comfortable…

–Where’s your knife? –He asks stepping in, definitely not waiting for an invitation (which I don’t really mind, to be honest). –I thought my eyes where in the line or something.

–They are. I just didn’t have the time to bring it out with the wine glasses.

And when I finally make my way back from the kitchen with the glasses and knife in hands, Billy is already sat in the couch. I let him pour the wine while I look for the channels with best post-midnight news, hoping I’ll find something that actually proves his story. In fact, if I even remembered the names Billy mentioned earlier, I would have looked for it on the internet.

–I don’t think I ever watched the news intentionally. –Billy points out, handing me over the pizza box.

–No one really watches the news. It’s just background noise until you hear something that actually peaks your interest.

–Know a lot about journalism?

–I don’t know a lot about anything, to be honest with you. I just pretend I know how to do stuff and trick people into believing in me. –I shrug at that, finally taking a slice apart and putting the box back in his lap.

–Every sentence I get from you is a hell ride, y/n.

–I guess it comes with being a songwriter; you should hear my songs.

–I do.

–Oh.

After this quick and awkward exchange, we both quiet down and just eat the whole pizza as the news covers a prison escape in the Albion Correctional Facility. Billy seems unsurprised and unfazed, so I don’t give it much thought. As the time goes by, the strange silence becomes kind of comfortable and I grow into his presence by my side – he’s not that bad, just creepy.

–Ok, so I think I should explain mys… –Once again, I cut the man off before he can go on with his bullshit. Billy doesn’t really look bothered by it, but I tell myself to stop a little with the bad habit. Luckily, he just appears to have the patience of an angel and his posture and expressions don’t change at all.

–I feel like if you explain I become sort of a psychological accomplice and I really don’t need this sort of complication in my life. It’s bad already, Billy.

–That’s why I want to tell you: you think I’m a criminal. I’m not! I knew the person who broke into my apartment the other day. He isn’t dangerous, but he’s sort of hard to deal with. I had some friends coming over to discuss the “visit”... Then the other day, it was a total coincidence, but all of my friends had been bleeding and my buddy Frank had been shot three times.

–Man, health-care in the US _really_ _gotta_ be a bitch.

–It’s complicated. –He shifts his position a little, almost turning his torso in my direction for the first time. It’s the “time to prove a point” motion and I don’t like it at all, so I cauterize him quick and clean.

–Don’t tell me.

–Well, I’d rather not, so thank you. Those are some complicated situations that you really shouldn’t be involved in and I’m happy that you’re extra cautious. I mostly try to stay cautious too, but today was just… I had a visit, but it wasn’t friendly. But everything is alright and within the law and you don’t need to freak out over this. I’ve spent three hours in the police station today, if it makes you feel better.

–It really doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter if I believe you or not, because there’s nothing I’ll ever be able to do about it. You’re a creep, period. I’ve came to terms with that. These walls are thin, Russo, and I liked it better when I heard you having sex rather than cocking guns and screaming at people.

I’m hardly ever this confident, but I believe that being constantly exhausted and pissed off has helped me with being so pointedly blunt and necessarily rude. And, again? I can’t bring myself to feel bad about it.

–You’re right.

–I know I am.

–And you’re fine with it? I mean, with the whole mess? I promise things are going to be way better now, it’s just been hectic because of the Schultz family.

–Yes, you’re definitely not my number one worry. Just stop screaming, ok? I really don’t like the screaming, because you’re always threatening someboy and that’s kind of scary. So maybe tone down the scary voice and I’m totally fine with the rest… Not the blood! Yeah, yeah, you need to stop with the blood too, for god’s sake!

–Ok, I can do with that just fine. No scary voice and no blood… Those are only two boundaries. Are you sure?

–Hm… I don’t know, Russo, I don’t know… But maybe stop by with more food another day and I’ll see if I remember something else. –Was that flirty? Oh my, was it? I hope I don’t make this whole thing weirder. –Maybe.

_It’s as if it’s wrong to leave me unsupervised._

–It’s like you’re reading my mind, neighbor. –And as if he hadn’t just flirted back, Billy smiles at the TV and hands over the pizza box once again.

_Uh, oh._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay I did it! Hope you guys liked this chapter and don't get mad at me.


	4. more than twice a week makes it a routine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh HI! I'm back with a little more! And, huh... I feel like I should warn you guys that this fic isn't over, but I don't think there will be more than 2 or 3 chapters. This is just a simple story I wanted to get out of my head, there's no big plot line or plot twists and all the good stuff.  
> BUT DON'T WORRY! I'm going to finish, of course! Writing this is super fun and I've seen that I got more than 300 hits! That's awesome, really. I don't know if all of these people have been reading the following chapters as well or if they quit after the first one, but nevertheless, I'm happy!  
> Anyway, here's the chapter! Hope you guys enjoy it!

Billy Russo is a creepy, scary and seemingly venomous man – but again, it’s like I don’t know better.

I’d say that it’s because I don’t know exactly what to do when there’s no time to ponder over what my answer will be, so I just blurt out something completely random to what my actual wish is and just throw myself into trouble. So, not even a week after we downed his bottle of wine until the news were over at three a.m., I came home to find a little note taped to my door.

 

_more wine?_

 

And of course, my first instinct is to freeze immediately. Freeze so hard that my brain doesn’t even process what I think about the invitation, despite the “danger warning” going off on my head. So I just stay still there, almost reaching for the tiny yellow post-it, until the door opening behind my back shakes me off the episode.

–I expected you to come back earlier and forgot to take it off. –His voice chimes in behind me, his steps making themselves audible across the floor.

–You expected me to come home earlier? Who am I, your 60’s wife? –I snap out of my state at his comment, looking over my shoulder and lowering my hand from the door.

–Ok, that didn’t sound like what I actually meant. –He shrugs and steps closer, leaving only arm length in between us. His expression is as calm as always and the jeans plus sweatshirt complete the vibe, but I can tell when something is calculated. –But I… I noticed that you’ve been getting home before five, these days, so I imagined you’d be back around that time today as well.

–Of course that’s what you meant. I mean… –If he’s trying to build something, then I might calculate too. So I square up and inch a little closer, shrugging for indifferent effects. –It’s not like you would ever patronize me, right?

Honestly, I don’t even know why this post-it triggered so much tension in between us. But as we share this stupid face-off, I can only think about how senseless this is and that, regardless of how ridiculous we are right now, I’m not going to back off first.

–You’re absolutely right. –A smile grows in his face and Billy nods in my direction. –Misogyny is not really my thing.

–That’s what I thought, Russo. So… Wine? –I point to the post-it behind us and lean against the door for some well deserved temporary rest. I’m not sure of what time it is right now, but it was past 8p.m. when I left the studio.

–It was the initial plan, but you didn’t show up, so I gave up and started making dinner. But… –Billy says that with a lighter mood, fully abandoning the faint shade of mystery that surrounded him before. –For your luck, I’m a terrible cook, so I fucked up the first dish and I’m only now getting finished with pasta.

–I don’t... –I was about to decline his offer and slip inside my own apartment, but like I mentioned before, something on my brain snapped and I very quickly measured my options: going inside and pushing something down my throat, all alone, which is a depressing option I always have. Or, for diversion, trade the solitude for dinner with a guy who never fails to make me laugh. –I don’t know how I’d ever refuse to go with you and eat your second chance pasta, Russo.

His pretty smile grows even more at that, which for some reason makes me think that I made the right call. Then, Billy takes a step back and points at his own door, still open wide and revealing a dark kitchen with dim lights.

–Do you want to shower first, or…

–Maybe I should, yeah. –I nod viciously, not being able to hold back a smile that creeps it’s way into my face without any permission. –I’ll be back in ten minutes for your pasta. Keep that door opened while I’m at it.

His only response is a nod, and we both turn back to get inside our apartments. Once I’m in, I rush to the bathroom so I can shower and change quickly enough to get back there soon – Russo is a creepy fuck, yes, he is. But I guess something inside loves all of the attention he gives me, especially when literally everyone else I know here has nothing but a business bond with me.

I’ve seen his name pop in the news a handful of times these days, all onto the Schultz case. Everywhere, Russo is painted as the good guy who helped Homeland Security to investigate the family and helped the Punisher, an unknown vigilante, to actually arrest them. News has it that he was the one to convince the vigilante to arrest rather than kill them.

One way or another, the changes of perspective helped me to get a little loose around mister bloody handprint, and actually leaning into the attention he gives me, because god – I’m so alone in here, and it only takes one thoughtful and attentive person to make me melt a little.

So I showered, slipped into shorts and a sweatshirt and made my way into his apartment. Like mine, there are two doors to get inside: the living room and the kitchen door. I mostly use my kitchen door, because it is closer to my bedroom than the main one. I hardly ever catch his kitchen door open, so it’s a little enchanting when I get inside and look around.

The walls are a strangely dark shade of grey, with brown cabinets and grey marble. Our kitchens are incredibly identical, even considering the position of all the furniture, but even then, the color choices make them both very distinct.

While mine is all clear and disgustingly well lit, his is somber and almost clinical, as if the whole thing just came out of the decor isle. Despite the observation, the place is perfectly surrounded by the smell of whatever he’s currently mixing in a grey pan.

–I thought you were a terrible cook. –I say, only then knocking on the door. –Or did you say that to lower my expectations?

– _I am_ a terrible cook. –He shakes his head and turns a little to smile at me, his face looking kind of grayish as a result of the dim lights and dark walls. –But my trick is trying again and again until it’s not that bad anymore.

–Smart man.

–That’s right… I’m pretty much… Done. –Billy shakes his head once more, as if he’s talking to himself, and then points at the bottle of wine by his side. –I hope you don’t mind, but I started a little earlier.

–No hard feelings here, just show me where I can get a glass of my own, Russo. –And as I say that, the neighbor leaves the stove and moves to the other side of the kitchen, reaching for one of the dark cabinets.

–I’m giving you wine because we’re having bechamel pasta and wine goes better with it, but if you want scotch or beer, that’s totally on the table. –He turns back and raises the glass in my direction, coming back to the bottle of wine and, consequently, to me.

–I’ll stick to wine.

It doesn’t take long before we’re both sat in the counter, eating in perfectly comfortable silence and with the glasses by our sides. As I said a thousand times before: there’s something strangely right about sitting by his side, doing whatever. Billy is good and constant, which are two things I often crave and hardly ever find.

–I learned the chives-and-coriander trick from you: they do change the flavor of things completely, you were right. –Billy motions to the tiny green bits spread in the middle of the pasta. And by the way, for someone who’s a “terrible cook”, his dish is actually quite impressive. –Not as good as your guilt trip omelet, but I’ll get in your level someday.

–Hey!

–I’m not calling you out. –He tries to suppress a smile and then raises his palms to the side of his face. –But there’s no need to deny it.

I don’t try to defend myself any further. It’s kind of late by the time we finish eating, so I don’t stick around for much longer, like the other day. We sit together for a little while nevertheless – he asked me about the production, and the amount of time I spent talking about it made me realize how much I really have been craving for that kind of attention. But I mean… Who else can I possibly tell about how much the costume department has been making me tear off hair strands and that every text from the song writing crew is enough to trigger a nervous attack?

He’s a great listener anyway, and besides clearly struggling with being open, he didn’t object to answer the questions I had about the Schultz – apparently, a dirty couple who built a empire upon blood and whored their son out as a politician to get even more influence. Sounds like the kind of thing I’d see in a bad romance, but I don’t object. New York has proved itself to be hectic and full of insane people anyways, so I’m not really surprised.

He watched me leave from his doorstep and waited until I waved for the last time and closed the door to go back inside.

That was nice. _Very_ nice, and it went on back and forth for quite the time. I called him over, he called me over; one of us got pizza or I made cake; Billy wants me to teach him how to do that omelet in a rainy morning, and in another occasion, we spend the whole afternoon laying down on the couch, drinking beer and watching Game of Thrones. This weird and intimate friendship goes on for time enough for him to know more or less when my period starts and for me to know that he has anti-anxiety prescription and sometimes needs meds to sleep (PTSD is a real bitch, especially to veterans).

We’re weird and comfortable, and most important of all, life goes on.

It’s the last week of the production, which means my job is pretty much done, but I still have it in me to show up every day and make sure everything is in the right place. The last few months have been hectic and there was no day in which I didn’t come back home absolutely wrecked, but now that the perspective of losing all of it comes at me, it gets a little stressful.

So I stop by a supermarket before coming home to get more carrots, zucchini, shoyu, wine and mozzarella cheese to make my infamous veggie spaghetti and chicken breast stuffed with bacon. I’m going to cook today and Billy Russo is totally invited (and not only because I don’t want to be alone during the possible breakdown that is waiting for me as soon as I get emotional.

His doors are closed by the time I step out of the elevator – weighing asking him straight away or doing it after showering, I end up choosing the later.

Not like that was the essential part of the deal: Billy had to be home, in the first place. But during a couple seconds of silence after I stepped out of the shower, some soft noises across the floor assured me that he was there.

I mean… Is it weird that I know how the way he moves around sound like? Or… Is it possible that he knows how I move like as well? Which brings me to the… Well. Huh…

Two days ago, when I stepped into the bath tub tired, needy and annoyed, and stayed there for thirty minutes doing a lot of handiwork bellow my waist – are there any chances that he was able to hear that? Ok, now that’s a weird perspective that I didn’t really need in my mind before stepping out of my apartment to invite him for dinner. But as I was saying: the fear of triggering some bad thoughts while being alone in the apartment moved me out of it, secretly craving his company.

And it’s strange to knock on his door. _I don’t even know what to say_ , it occurs to me as I patiently wait for his steps to come closer and closer to me – which is a better outcome then him not showing up at all.

–Y/n? –I barely register as he opens the door for me. Looking up a little, I watch as his somewhat stressed expression morphs into a relaxed one, his eyes softening little by little. –Everything’s good with you?

–I… Yeah, of course. But, hm… Listen, I’m going to cook right now; go full on gourmet, in fact. So I thought I’d call you over to have dinner with me.

–Oh… So it’s like… More of your guilt-trip-gourmet-experience? –Billy tries me while cocking one of his eyebrows, smirking and folding his arms in between us; and now that it has come to my attention, we are close enough to breathe each other’s air.

–Russo, you are full of… Actually, yes. I’m tripping really hard and I want company _and_ cooking is a little therapeutic for me. So… Dinner?

Spitting it out all at once is easier than measuring the words in my mind, and I guess it’s already a victory that I didn’t stutter on my way there.

–It’s always a pleasure. –His expression grows even softer, as if it was possible. –Do you want me to chime in with the alcohol?

–I just bought rosé wine and it isn’t cold. –I shake my head and think back to the transparent bottle filled with the pinkish liquid, almost capable of tasting it in my tongue (all of this work has asked for a unusual amount of alcohol and considering the history of alcoholism in my family, it’s a dangerous amount as well.

–It isn’t cold? I mean, it ever is? Wine? –Billy frowns as he unfolds his arms and leans a little into the doorstep.

–Most of the time, because I only ever use wine to cook and I keep it on the fridge. But I’ve been drinking all of it, nowadays, so I guess the lines got a little blurred for me.

For a millisecond, something shifts in his semblance and from that very moment, a more concerned shade makes itself clear as Billy looks down at me. It’s strange and I don’t really know what that’s supposed to mean, but I try to distract myself from the very thought, pointing back to my own door.

–Yes, of course. Lead the way, ma’am.

I don’t mention that I hadn’t even started washing the vegetables yet. Maybe it’s for the better if Billy just comes inside right now and keeps me company while I move around – because the way my mind is shifting, being left alone for five more minutes might be enough to make me crawl on my own skin. It itches a little, already. So I just nod and guide Billy into my kitchen, without looking back until he shuts the door closed behind us

–It’s a simple dish. Simple and kind of quick, but I think it is fantastic. Do you trust me, Russo? –I try to put a devious smile on my face as I rush to the still packed things.

–With my eyes closed, neighbor. –Billy tips his head mockingly, but he steps closer anyways and takes a look at what I’m arranging in the counter. –But just in case, what are we doing?

–Chicken breast stuffed with bacon and veggie spaghetti… And oh, before you ask, I’m going to cut carrots, zucchinis and chard and cook them with chopped onions in a way that it will look like it is spaghetti.

–But it isn’t.

–That’s the point. –Smiling, I nod in the direction of what bag the wine is supposed to be in. –I’ll get the glasses and wash my hands to get started.

And as I suspected, it was a better idea to call him in earlier anyway. At some point, Billy says that he never ate chard or zucchini, but I assure him that there’s no way to go wrong with this recipe. That’s something I learned back home with my mother, when I was sixteen or seventeen, and to this day, it is one of the foods that never fails to bring a smile to my face. That is, of course, because I’m not even considering the hard fact that this is an undeniably good dish and I don’t think there’s a single possibility that he won’t like it.

It really doesn’t take long before the food is ready – especially when Billy gave me a hand in the things that I actually allowed him to do, so that is to say something. We finish whatever is left on our glasses before eating, still talking about the odds of meeting a vigilante on a daily basis. That’s one hell of a random subject that I don’t really remember how it got to our attention, but there we were, anyways.

I insisted to serve his plate, like I always do when I’m smug about cooking something especial to someone. We didn’t eat in silence, this time, but it was just as nice. Maybe all of the stress I’ve been feeding through the day made it’s way out of me as we spent that time together and talked about all and everything.

–You’re still as busy with the production? –The question pops up after we ate and took the bottle of wine into the back balcony, the two of us leaning into the balcony grill.

–Well… We’re going to wrap it all up in the next three days. Most of my work is done, but I guess I’m still showing up to wear out the muscle memory. –I say with a shrug, hoping that my voice didn’t sound as shaken as it did in my head.

–I see. And maybe, it’s also because you’re nervous about how things we’ll be when it’s over. So you’re trying to extend your stay as long as it can be?

–I…Yeah, maybe. It’s just… I know it’s kind of dumb and this job gave me so much anxiety, but now I’m just… I don’t know.

–It’s not dumb at all. –Billy shakes his head and turns a little in my direction, with the same kind, but even more attentive eyes. –It’s incredibly understandable, actually. You’ve been doing… See, when we go on tours, we don’t even know what’s going to happen or if we’ll come back home at all. We spend months, sometimes even years, hidden somewhere doing a hard work that consumes us whole. And then, if we’re lucky enough, the tour is over and we’re sent back home; but that part is, I’d say, the most complicated one.

–Is that true? –My interruption rushes out of my mouth before I can stop it, but Billy only smiles at me in return, turning his glass of wine around in his hand.

–Yes. There’s so much stress about if it will be possible for you to fit in again, how that place currently looks and feels like, if you’re capable of leaving the place you’re in right now behind… And then, when you’re finally back, it’s just a matter of being jumpy and questioning yourself all of the while: making comparisons… And, well… I guess what I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t suffer by anticipation. –He shrugs and then smirks at me, tilting his head to the side a little. –This job _really_ turned you into a train wreck, but if you really end up missing the whole thing, there’s always another chance to do it again: I did. I didn’t think I’d ever miss war, while I was at it, but I eventually did, and when that happened, I came back. And I did it until enough was enough. One thing is right: you had a life before that job came up, so there’s no way you can’t go back to it when it’s over. It might be hard to pick up the pace again, but you’ll eventually get it just right.

We stay in silence for a while after that. Mostly because I don’t really know what to say, but also because I end up stunned, thinking about it. For a man who likes to make it seem as if he’s all rough and practical, Billy certainly has a better way with words than what I mostly do.

And I guess he’s right. Of course, easier said than done, but hasn’t he… You know – done it? So it can’t be that bad, especially when this is just me freaking out about finishing a production that gave me nothing but a migraine.

–Thank you, marine. –I manage to say, raising my almost empty glass to meet his in the middle of the air. –You’re the best.

Billy doesn’t answer, but the soft look in his eyes is enough to warm my insides a little more. Sounds about right and we don’t really talk anymore until Billy points out that he has to show up at Anvil extra earlier tomorrow and has to come back to his own place to sleep – it was past midnight already, anyways. So I take him to the door and watch as he leaves, perhaps like a twisted version of how things went down the other day.

–I have an idea. –He says right before touching his own handle, turning around to face me once more before going inside. –You said that the movie is going to be done in three days, right? So… If you don’t have anything planned out already, how about I take you out for dinner in your last day of work?

Now that’s… Well, one thing is to call him over for homemade dinner, while actually going out in public is a whole new deal – not bad, just a little surprising, I’m saying.

–Oh, wait a minute! Is this… Russo, is this your version of a guilt-trip-gourmet-experience? –I cross my arms and try to summon a smirk, watching as his soft smile turns into a bark of laughter.

–Goddammit! I can’t believe you remembered that!

–Of course I did, marine. But tell me, what is your plan? You’re going to knock on my door friday so we can go wherever to eat and…

–Well, to start with, we’re not guilt tripping into dinner. I theory, I’m calling you out for dinner because we’re two adults who like to spend time with each other. –Billy says that as he raises his palms in defense.

And you know what? I really enjoy it. The easiness that comes with being around him: the sarcasm, the silly jokes and our joint mockery towards other things and people. I still have a hard time owning it, but bit by bit, I find myself being just as confident as the time goes by.

–Oh, I see what you’re doing here, marine.

–Do you? –The neighbor defies me with that look that makes it seem as if he knows something that I don’t. –Because if you want it, I’d like to take you on a date.

–Oh. –It is, somehow, the only thing to manage to get out. It’s not like I’m scared of it, but I guess that hearing the word “date” makes it a little more serious than I thought it was, to start with. It implies a… Couple of expectations.

–Yeah.

–Don’t we… I mean, don’t we know a lot about each other already?

–That’s… I guess you’re right. –Billy nods and leaves his position, coming back to my door with a smile that probably matches my own. –So this time around, we can focus on the most cliché and corny parts of a first date for sarcastic purposes only.

–Oh, now we’re talking, Russo. Are you going to wear one of those expensive suits? –His eyes sparkle as I say that, feeding the joke. Almost as if I don’t remember what mostly happens when I let myself get terribly involved with complicated men. –And I’ll wear a red dress with the price tag still tied to the back, so you can think that I got it especially to go out with you?

And then somehow, his face contorts into a shocked expression. After a few beats, it comes to me that he’s been a victim of this trick before, but didn’t new it was a thing. The realization is enough to make us both burst out laughing again, but he comes back to the question soon after.

–So is it a date?

–Yes, it is, Russo. –My answer comes in a beat, this time.

–Alright. –He tips his head to the side, still smiling, and goes back to his own door. –I… I guess I’ll be counting on that red dress of yours.

Waving one last time, Billy walks into his apartment and I can’t help but wonder if this is how he feels when I’m the one leaving – happy and at peace, but struggling a little with something weird tightening on the chest. One way or another, I sleep as peacefully as it can be, during that night; I don’t even reach for my phone, before showering and slipping in between the mattress and the soft blankets. Rather than dreading it, I’m pretty much looking forward to this friday.

And now need to buy a red dress, because I don’t think there’s anything like that on my closet.


	5. much like a storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh HI! I thought about this before, but didn't point it out here. Thin Walls is a complicated story, because it only goes around in between these two people, therefore, it's really hard to build up without making it repetitive and annoying. This relation gets even more strict and narrow in this particuler chapter, but I hope I made my way around it just fine.  
> ALSO... Only now it came to my attention that I kind of gave the character a little problem with alcohol. I didn't see this coming in the begining, and I recognize that this is a serious matter that might hurt or trigger someone, so since it didn't play a part in the story, I decided to cut it off right now before it got bad and/or awkward.  
> Well... That's all I wanted to say, I guess. Still happy and thankful to everyone who still stops by and is coming along to read this story! I love you all!

The morning after his invitation, the director makes the effort to come to me and point out that the whole crew is going out for dinner – and that should be, I guess, an invitation. But truth be told, I really don’t want to go anywhere with these people. They’re all crazy talented and professional, but brats in just the same amount. The lead actors are only kind to the children; the children are spoiled and don’t behave well; the song writing and sound mixing crew are extremely entitled; the costume department is filled with wannabe fashion designers who aren’t happy to just reproduce costumes that they didn’t even get to create in the first place and the director can’t even seem to hide how much he dislikes me for directing by his side.

There’s no way a single person in that place actually wants me to go anywhere with them, and I’m not stupid enough to force myself into their celebration dinner; I’ve got one of my own coming up anyway, and I’m supposed to make actual preparations for it.

Such as… Well, the fact is that there aren’t many places open after 8 p.m., which happens to be the time I usually get home these days. And so far, I can’t tell if it’s because I don’t know where to shop or if my body is the actual problem, but finding a cool red dress to buy has been a tough mission.

I might have found one that wasn’t that bad, but the tag was hidden in the inside and, well… Regardless as to why, it made the whole thing a little more unflattering before my eyes.

–I’d love to, but I need to go out today and do some preparations for something that is coming up. –The explanation rolls out of my tongue before I can even picture the words in my mind. Tomes, the director, doesn’t seem to bat an eye at my answer before nodding and going away, clearly being the one to pull the shorter stick and therefore, chosen to talk to me.

Five stores and two extra hours later, I step out of the mall with what a dress, two heels I couldn’t choose in between and more lip products than what I could possibly need. Being fed in nothing other than a cup of bubble tea and one ice cream cone I devoured while wandering around the clothes, I call an Uber to take me home, later than what I’d like it to be.

Billy is not home.

I can tell that much because, weirdness aside, I know what the marine sounds like even when he’s quiet, lying down. And that’s strange, because I really had the impression that we’d meet up today, despite the late hour – I don’t think either of us really goes to sleep before midnight.

The apartment I share walls with is, however, as silent as it could be: it barely even reproduces the sizzles, hisses and creeks of a properly functioning place. No steps, no doors opening.

That’s odd. I mean, considering his habit of going out during the night to come back with a pretty woman, not so odd; but it has been a while since that happened and I, huh, I imagined that neighbor wouldn’t pull his stunts on me after asking me on a date. So I set on my mind that Billy was just working – busy somewhere, screaming at people who piss him off and getting things right. Sounds more like it.

The peace didn’t last for long, but it went on for a while. After trying on the red dress once more, deciding on the black high heels rather than the brown ones, putting the things away and then showering to sleep, something sparkled in my mind all of a sudden. A different version of the line of thought I have fervently partaken on tonight – less of “ _Where’s Billy?_ ” and  more like “ _What if something happened to Billy?_ ” that sounds just as bitter, but now, covered in worry.

The marine does work with serious matters that often put him in danger, and I’d definitely have seen some ugly scars on his body before – some of them are so tiny that they’re as thin as a silvery needle, but some are pink and angry and draw themselves through large inches of skin; or the bullet hole that I’ve peeked on once, as he laid down on my couch and his shirt slid up a little.

Those scars were conquered somewhere, somehow, and it had to be foolish from me to just… Assume that those days were gone. As far as I know, those days are gone on my doorstep, but chances are he’s still going strong on his bullshit – on the outside, where I can’t really see or know about anything.

And that, for some reason, makes my nerves tingle like they’ve been resting in the same position through a very long ride – and they probably have.

It’s not like I haven’t strictly asked him to spare me of his dangerous complications before. In fact, that request has been made so many times that it’s somewhat surprising that he ever started obeying, but he does – and the outcome of it makes something weird happen inside my chest, which get’s me wondering what are the odds of having a heart attack before fifty.

I eventually force myself to lay down and close my eyes, after at least a full hour off ghosting my finger above his contact on the phone and thinking about his whereabouts.

Whatever is going on, I can’t possibly help by giving him a call and staying up like a creep, waiting for noises to come from his apartment.

The following day is just as hectic, but most of my co-workers are emotional and happy, mirroring the last day of shooting, so their soft moods help a little with all of the work. The whole crew has lunch together this time, which is a lot of _thai food_ that the director has ordered for everyone, with joint tables in the middle of a very large room and all that. Someone from editing suggests going out to get beer, but the idea is shot down by one of the producers before my mind even sparks at the sight of alcohol. Thai food with juice and soda, it is.

The afternoon in the studio is defined by a bunch of exhausted people sitting at their computers and hardly doing any work, but as far as I can tell, everyone goes as far as the expected they should have done for the day and that is awesome. Tomorrow is pretty much about gazing through the production plenty of times to see if we can catch anything wrong.

 And once again, someone approaches me to talk about something other than the movie. This time it’s Lucas, part of the sound mixing team; a guy who never even looked me in the eyes, but is in enough of a good mood to place a hand on my shoulder, before we all call it quits.

–We’re going to head out to the Sereia tonight, when we’re all done here. –Lucas says with a bright smile that I have never once seen in his face. It’s as if the end of this madness is really messing with all of us. –It’s a place with nice seafood at the end of the street.

And naturally, a negative answer almost makes it’s way out of my mouth. I don’t want to go out with them – I just want to go home and have dinner with Billy while we both sit in pajamas on my or his couch. Either way, going out to spend extra hours with people who have been consistently devouring my brains bite by bite for months now is barely on the table. However… Well, what are the chances I’ll find Billy home when I come back home? A glance at my phone and, well… It’s a little six p.m., so it can’t really hurt to take a risk and go out rather than coming home to face the possibility of disappointment.

So I agree. I’m sure there aren’t any words leaving my mouth, but a nod and a faint smile must have been enough, because Lucas smiles back and turns his chair around work on the unwelcomed sizzling we caught on scene 2 from the third act.

I’m still sizing the odds of going to dinner with them (and by the way, I don’t even know who “them” are supposed to be) or just getting myself home with a spare bottle of wine and a little beer up on my brain to move things around – and it’s such a fine line in between disease and recreation, but I’m certainly dancing around it with my eyes closed and pretending the subject doesn’t make me anxious when I’m sober enough to ponder about it.

Just one more day and I’m done with it, huh?

It has to hold a little more meaning than when it does when some addicted says it in a movie, right? Or maybe that’s the point of this whole thing: we both actually think that this sentence is true.

Ok! It’s not an addiction, it’s just a constant exaggeration I’m definitely done with. No more drinking in the middle of the street after work or home alone, with no absolute reason. I can totally flip the habit around for tea: actually, that’s a really good idea. It has been weeks since I even touched the bow with all of my teas and herbs in one of the white cabinets.

But just for safety reasons, I choose to step out of my comfort zone and go out for dinner with the crew. Going home alone to meet nothing but two bottles of wine I have stashed there doesn’t sound like a good idea right now – so maybe this whole case isn’t so simple, after all. Who would have thought? Certainly not thirteen year old me.

And it’s a little after eight when the whole crew simultaneously head out. _Sereia_ is incredibly close to the studio, but those who came in a car drive their way there, and that includes the _ever so sympathetic_ Lucas, who so happened to offer me a ride with him and his pals. It can’t be the end of the world.

As it turns out, the whole experience isn’t as awkward as I thought it would be. After months of sitting and working around these people, it’s inevitable to pick up things about them, so the conversation in between us (which ends up consisting of twenty four people) flows very nicely and the food there is undeniably good. I even get a ride home and trade numbers with really nice people whose faces I’ve never even seen on the studio before.

It’s a win.

Coming home completely sober and placing myself comfortably under the sheets, hearing absolutely nothing coming from my neighbor’s apartment and knowing I did a bunch of right choices today – it’s a fucking win, and I sleep like an angel until I’m shook awake by my alarm, the following morning.

It’s just as quiet.

Today marks my last day of work and I also have a date for the night, but I’m feeling incredibly discouraged for both.

Just as I predicted, the day at the studio is nothing but watching the same thing over and over to fix little things that passed by our eyes and ears until I get totally sick of it and have all and every dialogue printed on my mind, anticipating them as they come through on the screens.

It’s a little past six when the director walks by, knocking on each door and asking if we’re all done. There’s no big speech or emotional goodbyes: that was for the end of shooting, really, when the crew was still really big and didn’t consist of a bunch of repressed people whom have been crawling on their own skin for a while.

That’s us.

Everyone looks a little homesick, truth be told, and we all take our time to pick our stuff up and go home. Lucas and Julieta, my newfound friends, invite me for dinner again and I almost accept. Almost, because again, I can’t really tell if I’ll find Russo home by the time I get there. And the odds of coming home to find no one and lose dinner with everyone tonight for nothing is enough to make me scowl all the way home, while I’m leaning into the cold Uber window.

And Billy isn’t home again. No message in sight and it’s way past 7p.m.

 _Awesome_.

I take a shower so hot that my skin hurts as the water drops hit my body. I wash my hair once more, which was totally uncalled for, but I guess it’s pointless to care – and maybe I deserve one last drink to finish an era. I still have rosé hanging on the counter and my fingers twitch as I think about going there for it.

I’m still wet and naked, looking as miserable as one could be when my phone vibrates above the bed, in a frequency that could only be a call. Flipping it around so I can see the id caller, it turns out to be Billy, which isn’t surprising at all. It’s not like a lot of people call me, anyway. And as it is, I’m pretty much determined to flip it back again and let it go on and on as I lay down naked in bed, but guilt makes it’s way up on my throat and I eventually grab the phone, perhaps a little more forcefully than it could have been.

 

– _What’s that?_ –I didn’t really mean to come out so frigid, but that’s definitely how it sounded like.

– _Y/n._ –Russo’s voice comes off as a relieved sigh, but I can’t really tell why and I’m so not in the mood of wondering about it. – _Hi. I hope you’re not… I’m... Is it too late to tell you that I’m not going to make it home anytime soon?_

Ha. Sounds like some fucked up thing that would happen to me. It’s really fitting and I’m not surprised at all, because somehow, I’ve been anticipating this since the day I came back home and his apartment was empty.

– _It is_. –Again: cold. I don’t want to sound so mean, because I don’t even know what his reasons are, but… I guess it’s hard to control how do you feel about  being stood up for a date that had cheering you up as it’s main purpose, after having refused perfectly fine dinner with nice people that, for some reason, you only now befriended. That and the anxiety about finishing the production; coming in full force. Yeah... And also because acting like this makes it easier to control the strange upcoming want to cry. – _Really fucking late._

– _So you’re mad._

– _I’m mad about a lot of things right now, Russo, missing dinner is barely a problem._ –There: dinner. Not a date, because I don’t feel like it. Dinner, because that’s what this is all about.

What even… What heartless explanation can he even have to not even giving me a call prior to this to say that the date is cancelled? I wouldn’t even care! But just… Calling me at 8p.m. to announce that our date is over sounds a little bit too careless and I can’t stand it. That’s just not right.

– _I’m sorry. I got caught up on something_. –He does sound apologetic, but only to an extent and it doesn’t soften my edges at all.

 _–I know you are_. –The feeling rises again, like there’s something actually expanding inside my throat. That’s when I know I can’t keep talking: that’s a little too painful and risky, and I’m too old for self-exposure. – _I need to go, Russo._

– _Right, I have to go as well_. –Billy says it quick, as if he knows I’m about to end this call. – _Bye, Y/n._

It’s almost inaudible, because it’s actually really hard to say something at this point, but I’m pretty sure I whispered something back before ending the call and throwing my phone to the other side of the bed. I had to. Being unreasonably mean is hardly a part of my personality and treating other people poorly isn’t my forte.

This time, the silence that I so vigorously leaned on in these past days is a little too sickening. A crack from the freezer; some droplets of water still escaping from the shower; the wind whistling against the glass windows, threatening to introduce one more storm to this already twisted night… And some sobs that I allow myself to let out.

The door is still open, and it creeks a little as the wind that’s coming from the kitchen balcony makes it’s way inside the apartment.

Still naked, but now dry, I go around the place once more to close all of the doors and windows that I left open earlier, saving the balcony in the kitchen for last. Staying there for a little longer, retrieving something to eat isn’t even a thought that ghosts over my head for more than five seconds. Ordering something doesn’t even feels like an option – I might as well just go to sleep hungry, which _I am_. But also, the idea of eating right now makes me feel sick.

And _wow_. It’s insane how being stood up by this man makes me feel so bad. It’s probably because I was really looking forward to this: with the mock red dress, cancelling plans with other people and all that – for nothing, of course. Still, the whole situation makes me feel sick and depressed and a quick glance to the clock confirms that it is, in fact, too late to dress up and go after the crew in the Sereia. So bed it is.

And with a shrug, I grab the bottle of rosé from the counter as I go.

Maybe that healing thing will stay for a day in which I don’t feel like I need liquid consolation to go on with life. For now, I’m going to drink myself to sleep like those dumbasses in indie movies who always end up dead in the end. I guess I’m not clueless or naïve, I just can’t bring myself to care about the long-term consequences of my shitty actions.

I think it’s kind of funny. I came off in a period of my life in which the only alcohol I only ever consumed was whatever I laid in a recipe that involved a little bit of wine. Nowadays feels like it’s hard to call it a day unless I’m dizzy enough to have my head hanging to the sides – I’ve always been a lightweight, there’s no arguing over this. One way or another, postponing my attempt at being sober isn’t something I’m proud of, but I can’t bring myself to stop this just now.

I did yesterday, for that matter. I really did and actually intended to lend my wine to Billy or someone from the building’s staff. But today feels unpleasantly heavy and I need something else to help me sink so low into the pit that there’ll be no other choice than actually building myself back again. And as to that, I mean waking up with a headache, marching over to the piano and playing jazz and R&B until ideas for a new original song pops up on my mind and I start busying myself once again with work, rather than actually facing my problems.

And _no_. _No_ , I’m not sobbing over a lost date or throwing my bad habits on Billy’s back. Everything I do is my responsibility and it would be ridiculous for me to believe and disseminate, somehow, that he’s in any way the reason why I’m so fucked up. That’s off the charts.

I am my own responsibility. I’ve always been and I have to be.

_Focus! Y/n, focus!_

I’m here for myself. I need to pick myself up, because if I don’t, nobody else will. I’ve always been my own responsibility _and I have_ to be.

The bottle is halfway done by the time the thought crosses my mind, and I’ve been drinking without a cup, for that matter. But my choice has been made and the rest of the wine is being thrown into the toilet before something changes inside my head.

And it’s such a dumb idea.

The entire bathroom smells like wine and it makes me sick, which is a feeling I had abandoned halfway through my depressing internal monologue. But maybe it’s a good thing: it moves me to clean the bedroom for once. Now, at 9p.m., drunk and depressed. Routine can be helpful, nevertheless, so I end up scrubbing the floor and ways until it shines and I sober up enough to the disgusted at the rest of the apartment and move to clean that up as well.

I’m feeling a little better with this. There’s some music playing – Beyoncé always gets me going, from _Dangerously in Love_ to _Everything is Love_.

It’s late – or early, depending on your point of view. _03:47_ , to be exact. The entire apartment is as clinical as it could be, all of my instruments went through a meticulous cleaning, the laundry has been done, some shoes were washed, as well as my make up brushes and after god knows how many months, I finally organized my closet.

When I lay down to sleep, there’s a concept idea for a new album too. To be honest, I’m not sure if this could be a title, but _Current Obsessions_ is certainly a theme.

Billy Russo doesn’t come home until two weeks later, leaving me with nothing but an “ _I’m coming home soon. Are you still here?_ ” message in between them, being answered with a quick but incredibly thought through “I _hope everything is alright. Come back home”._

I don’t really know what “are you still here?” means, as I also don’t know what I meant by “come back home”. Sounds like we’re a married couple who shares the same place – regardless of the two of us acting pretty much like it, since we became friends and started cooking and buying food for each other. Either way, he doesn’t answer and I don’t press further. I’m not really mad or resentful anymore, which is probably the result of being perfectly sober for the past two weeks. For now, I genuinely just want Billy to come back home and to be able to make sure that he’s safe and sound.

Eventually, like every other thing, it happens. It’s somewhere in the middle of the afternoon and I’m playing _Nuvole Bianche_ in the grand piano when I hear the elevator doors sliding over through the walls. I hear that and also the loud steps coming out of it. Being loud is so unlike Billy, but I recognize the way he moves around (and that’s common territory for me).

But he’s not moving inside his own apartment and, after a couple beats, I notice that I’m not playing any longer – so I come to the conclusion that this is some sort of a stare-off, regardless of the both of us being kept apart by the wall.

I can hear him approaching my door slowly; his steps getting lighter and lighter as they come, probably falling back at his usual rhythm. And I’m either too delusional or have a great hearing, but I can also tell that he’s placed his hand against my door. I mean – what are the odds that he knows I’m inside and aware of his presence?

What will be his reaction if I get up and open the door?

 _Fuck it_ – I’m going to take the chance. I want to see him already and ease my anxiety a little. I miss him, I really do.

So I get up and basically float to the door, regardless of not making a single effort to be silent and cat-like. He’s still there… I inevitably hesitate a little before opening the door, but it’s a little too late to decide against just that right now, when my hand is already pressed against the handle.

He’s there. He’s there, posture as confident as always but eyes a little unsure – and it takes me a while to understand why.

 _Scars_.


	6. it's quite romantic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh HI! It took me some time - sure. I just have been kinda depressed and super stressed out with some stuff. Sometimes it's hard for me to sit down and concentrate (when I have the time). Some stuff can be a little demotivating,  
> and OH before you like CRINGE cringe I want to say that where I'm from, we eat pizza with knife and fork. I know americans like to eat with their hands, but I wasn't sure if it applied to restaurants as well or not, so I decided to NOT take the chance and make them eat with knife and fork as well.  
> I guess that's it. I hope you guys like the chapter!

The scars are all over his face – scattered in his cheeks, nose and even forehead. They’re red, angry and clearly still healing, but they're there nevertheless and it’s a… Well, it’s certainly different.

And see, it’s not like I really know what to say in this situation and talking doesn’t seem like Russo’s thing either, so I just opened the door a little wider and motioned with my hand to the couch. I can’t really go wrong with this and the fact that he did step in and followed my lead is somewhat encouraging. We did not, however, talk at all in which was probably the first hour of the two of us sitting together in the couch like two weird lost kids.

–Though couple weeks? –It inevitably comes out of my mouth, after god knows how much time of awkward silence.

Billy doesn’t answer my stupid question at all, but something like a smile appears in his face after I said it. He also doesn’t stick for long after that: the _jigsaw-like_ man left my apartment shortly after and went into his own, with no such thing as a “hello” or “goodbye” on his way out, but all things considered, I’m completely fine with it.

I don’t know what to do! There isn’t clearly a single thing I can do about it, I’m also the worst with words – being quiet and letting him do his thing in peace sounds like a much smarter idea, although something weirdly heavy and foreign sets in my chest with no warning and doesn’t leave for days.

I can hear him moving around as they go by: opening doors, showering, cooking, fixing something in the living room, moving heavy things around… I can tell Billy doesn’t leave the house during these first couple days and there aren’t any visitors as well. His habits almost mimic mine, and for the first time ever I realize how sickening it is – maybe all it takes is a change in the point of view for things to become a little clearer.

And if there’s something out there that makes me feel awful is poking wounds and pushing subjects that I have no business with, but I eventually got tired of picturing Billy on the other side of the walls, the alive and irrevocably unapologetic being that he is, rotting in a expensive couch like a loser – pretty much like me.

It’s on an awfully chill and somber Wednesday dawn; somewhere past 3a.m., when I hear shuffling on the other side of the wall, the TV being turned on and a loud thud of Billy dropping himself in the couch. And my analysis of the situation bothered me a little, especially considering I realized that I had done the same exact thing not even twenty minutes prior to that, before eventually giving up in the TV. Now that can’t be right, can it? That’s pretty much how I ended up picking my phone up from the floor and looking through my contacts to message Russo in a particularly nosy episode of mine.

.

“ _what, you left your job?_ ”

“ _listening through the walls like a creep, neighbor?_ ”

“ _come on, your depression is making me depressed_ ”

“ _too soon._ ”

“it isn’t _. the faster you rip off the band-aid the better, you know it. time for healing is only ever useful if you’re actually healing_ ”

“ _fair enough._ ”

 

I went to sleep after that and there were no more messages from Billy by the time I woke up. There were some new offers and projects, sure, but nothing I felt like picking up for the time being (mostly because after the movie, I have felt absolutely no motivation or strength whatsoever to do anything. Almost as if the job have drained me completely and left nothing but a carcass behind). I slept again like a chest of cement during lunch, had a gourmet, well crafted dinner at 4a.m. and then went for a long walk with nothing but my tiny and cheap, thief-proof Ipod, right before midnight.

No, I don’t know shit about the surroundings and yes, I got inevitably lost. It was only natural that it happened and to be honest, it didn’t even angered me. I just walked around streets and more streets that I surely didn’t recognize, getting inside 24hrs stores to buy snacks every once in a while.

This nice old lady asked me where I was going while we were standing in line in a pharmacy I’ve never been in before. Short explanation: I saw the showcase full of tiny boxes and bottles and wondered whether or not they’d have good exfoliators and face masks. Those are, for sure, things that I don’t desperately need, but my bored and lost self thought that it would be a nice twist to crown my strange night.

The lady – whose name was Margo or Margaret, didn’t think too hard about why my grown ass have been lost in the first place, but she did give me plenty of advice to get back to a reference point I’d certainly be able to get back to my apartment from.

What a lovely and attentive lady, that Margo-Margaret.

When I finally made my way back into the apartment it was a little past 2a.m. and for some reason, Billy just so happened to be stepping out of his own to take out the trash – and considering the recent events, I think that it does make a little sense that he chose this weird time to do it.

I mean… He still looks beautiful. Russo’s face is just as striking and his presence is just as intimidating; even more now, I’d say. I guess the major problem is the dissociation that he’s probably going through: those are some mean looking scars and they don’t look like the type that eventually fades. Billy is probably sitting around and going through some bad case of body dysmorphic disorder or some of the shit all girls go through when they’re like 13, facing and battling the entire world’s perception of what their bodies should look like. Figures.

Boys probably face that too – I wouldn’t know. Might as well be the case for a beautiful specimen that mostly acts like he never once had insecurities about his own perfect body. That has to be a different exchange to his usual rhythm.

–We all love a boy cleaning after himself. –I tease him a little and cross my arms, getting hit with all the different plastic bags in the process.

–Someone has to do it. –Billy answers with the same tone and a smile that probably matches mine appears on his face at that. He swings the bag into the waste disposal channel we have in the building and turns back to me with a smaller, but just as nice smile. –And you? Running errands at two a.m.?

–I went for a walk, got lost and then, started shopping in drugstores and 7/11’s. Had a great time, you wouldn’t believe me.

–Yeah? And how exactly did you manage to get lost?

–Hm, we’re not getting into that right now, Russo. So… Hm, are you still on time out? –The question is made as quickly as the band-aid thing: the faster you do it, the less you feel it. –Because if that’s the case, I guess it won’t be a lot of trouble if you come in and eat with me.

–Oh. I thought eating after midnight was for losers. –His tricky expression offers me an eyebrow raise, but I know better than that.

It was for sure something that I told him at some point. You’re not really supposed to eat after midnight (heavy stuff, especially). Your body needs time to digest before you get into rest mode, so eating after midnight it’s not going to make you any good deeds, other than the possibility of getting reflux and a whole digestive mess you could certainly spare yourself from.

But as things are being said: this is a strange night and I might as well treat myself to some cheetos and candybars as my scarred neighbor seems to be enjoying himself a little. It can’  t hurt (and I also miss him a lot, but we’re not going to discuss this right now).

Once inside, we went straight for the couch, like most times, and started munching on the snacks and watching the news; there’s a building on fire on Staten Island and the pesos are going up back in Spain. Nothing either of us really cares about, but we watch attentively nevertheless.

He’s a little closer than usual, by the way. By _closer_ , I mean we’re very pointedly leaning into each other and pretty much exchanging body heat at this point – which is such a step-up from watching the news in separate couches while holding a knife at all times. And somehow, before _you_ think too hard into this, I don’t think either of us really does. I _guess_ Billy is my best friend, he’s also strangely cuddly and smells really nice; like freshly washed clothes and soft soap. And the man can’t think too hard about me either (I wouldn’t. I’m inside my own head at all times and it is surely tiring – wearing, gruesome, even.) So I just keep chewing.

We sleep together in the couch that night. We don’t really cuddle, then, but our heads share the same pillow as our bodies lay in completely different directions on the couch. And yes, _yes_ … It is, in fact, a very unpractical, childish and unnecessary solution, but it worked out and I only woke up after feeling his body stirring on the other side of the couch.

Nice.

It happens once, twice, thrice… There was this night in which I convinced him to watch the last season of Game Thrones before the finale with me. We went to sleep at eleven a.m. and then we decided upon sleeping together in his place, because his curtains are all dark, while most of mine (especially the ones I had during that day) were basically transparent.

–We’re waking up for dinner? –Billy asks softly after we’re both pretty much settled and almost dozing off (and _oh_ , how strange is this?).

–I’m _so_ not cooking, Billy.

–Ok, let’s go out, then. We can go get food somewhere. What do you think? –This time, his tone is just as calm, but I can tell he’s waiting for an answer.

–I’m not stepping in anywhere fancy. –It’s the answer I give, although it kind of sounds like a warning, the longer it sinks inside my head. _Maybe it was_.

I can hear him sighing and shifting a little by my side, but by all means, just as relaxed and calm. Actually, if my vision wasn’t so blurred, I’d say he’s smiling a little to me.

–I wouldn’t dare. Not with my Freddy Krueger face, at least.

–Hm. I was thinking more like a cute Tony Montana. Or a contemporary Inigo Montoya; who knows? You’re all handsome, Billy.

In that morning, I fall asleep with Billy’s laughter as a strangely soothing lullaby, as the purple curtains hold back all of the light from the skies from us. It’s kind of weird, but it’s also kind of comforting. Sometimes things just feel right and I can’t bring myself to go against that type of feeling – not nowadays, _I can’t_.

Eventually, an Instagram notification shakes me off my hazing state of sleep like a terribly loud alarm. _19:17_ , his bedside clock affirms.

A couple more seconds are enough for my senses to adjust properly, and in no time my brain understands that the sizzling noises I’m hearing are the drops of water falling down as Billy is showers in the bathroom. _Right_.

In no time, I grab my phone from under my (his) pillow and creep my way back into the kitchen. Yes, just so I don’t have to face a freshly showered Russo, who might come out of it shirtless; I don’t need to deal with this type of situation this early in the morning – night. I mean night! Seven p.m., right? Uh, I’ll definitely need something to keep me awake. That and dinner, that’s for sure. And _oh_ , about that…

–Are you going to make coffee?

And I was about to say “no”. A quick glance down made me realize that I was, in fact, grasping the coffee pot like it was my life line. That’s weird.

–Can you say that again? Slower, this time. –I roll my eyes at him and set the thing down where it was previously sitting (or I think so). To be honest, I feel like I’m still sleeping.

–I thought we were out to eat. –Billy smiles like he knows something and leans into the counter, wearing jeans and a black shirt; I can do with that.

–Hm… No, I don’t remember, but I also don’t remember my own name right now. –Saying that, I also raise my phone up like it is a glass and I’m cheering for something. –But we are. I’m showering and you better be by the door by the time I’m done. Ten minutes.

I do not, by any means, get ready within ten minutes. To be fair, I was more or less twenty minutes into the shower until it downed on me that I was supposed to get going _by now_. Dressing up, I did consider how much fun it would be if I wore the red dress to go out – but thoughts of a depressing night, laying down with the garment by my side while weeping and getting drunk in wine made the idea die down pretty quick. I ended up slipping into black jeans, a red sweater and a black jacket (the element was just there). A little make up too; only god can judge me, but I don’t think _they_ will.

I guess Billy got tired of waiting outside at some point. He snaked his way into my apartment and leaned into my bedroom’s doorstep in time to see me slipping my wallet inside an old black bag I found in the closet.

–Ok, let’s get something settled here. This wallet is pretty much useless _and_ an insult, because _I_ am taking you out for dinner. –He says, pointing an accusing finger to the bag in my hands.

–Oh, Russo, it seems as if you misunderstood the whole thing. –I say and walk over to drop the bag on his hands, while I wander around to get more stuff inside; my I.D., a tiny mirror, lip balm, a band-aid (just in case)… –You _are_ taking me out for dinner. But I’ll need money to pay for my Uber ride in case you piss me off.

 _Again_ – his face changes into that amazing smile that hardly ever makes it to his face. That one that makes it seem as if he has never been happier and, for some reason, it always makes me feel prideful for being able to put it there. _Ah_ , I can’t be any more of a fool, can I?

Billy gladly holds the bag as I come to set everything inside, still smiling just the same. It’s warming.

I don’t know much about New York, but I know (or at least I think, based on what everyone else says) for sure that driving instead of getting the subway is a dumb choice, although I’m not sure of how and where it applies. I’m pretty much stepping inside his car by the time the thought occurs to me, so I’m certainly not going to suggest that now.

Billy and I end up pulling somewhere close to an avenue that I certainly never been to and a short inspection around the place is enough to make us dive into a pizzeria he claims to be good. I’m always down for pizza. I’d say it’s almost impossible to go wrong, although it is very dangerous to say _it is impossible_ to go wrong – anyway. It can’t be that bad, and it isn’t. The place is incredibly packed, which mostly makes me a little wary, but I remember after a couple minutes: it’s Sunday. Lots of families and friends going out, I suppose.

Besides that, the night is completely uneventful and just as I expected casually going out for dinner with Billy would be. Well, _that_ and most people, like for example the waiters, assuming we’re a couple and neither of us really denying, regardless of sharing a knowing look (and I’m not even sure of what knowledge is it that we happen to share).

Oh. _Also_ , I don’t know if it was a bunch of coincidences all around or if there is a truly incredible amount of people who knows Billy. I mean, not Billy – _Mr. Russo_ , the marine sniper scout and CEO of Anvil. They’re all extremely respectful, keep a safe distance (or at least the men) and some of them seem a little stressed out. Like they’re intimidated, I guess (it’s understandable, but I’m way past this phase already).

One of the waiters, this skinny boy with a “Julian” name tag always stutters while talking to us, and he calls me “lady” and “ma’am” all the time; it’s kind of funny. The cashier is an old lady with a huge smile who focuses on Billy completely like he’s a hero or something, and I go from “lady” to “sweetheart” really quick. There’s also some nods coming back and forth and I can’t help but wonder who exactly are those. Friends? Someone from work? People from his social circle? Am I looking at a secretary or another marine as well? I wouldn’t know.

Another couple, whom I’ve never even seen before, stopped by our table before leaving completely. I noticed they were staring at us for quite the time: probably wondering whether or not it really was Billy, and they clearly took their time trying to figure that out. Billy probably hadn’t noticed: their table was behind his back. Damn marine and his need to sit facing the front doors – anyway, they came by.

– _Mr. Russo_ , I didn’t think I’d see you here. –The guy waved nervously, fidgeting a little in his feet, while the woman looked pale and her eyes held a paranoid look, sporting a forced white smile and strained neck. –It’s been some weeks since we have seen you in the facility.

–Almost a month, sure. –Billy nodded back with a friendly expression that didn’t really reach his lips and seemed very much calculated. –I took some time to heal, but I’m coming back tomorrow.

–Oh! This is great! –The guy jumped, although he didn’t seem relieved at all.

–Fantastic! –The nervous blonde added, looking more and more affected. –It’s really fantastic.

–It’s… –The man breathed in for some seconds, and I took that time to realize that I didn’t even know their names to start with. –Everyone is going to be so happy that you’re coming back.

–I hope so. There are some things that need to be put back in place. – _There_. Billy managed to strategically place smile that made him look and sound young and carefree, while making the poor guy get even more nervous. I don’t know what this is about, but as awkward that it is for me, it’s also a little interesting.

–Of course!

And as quickly as they came, the couple seemed to escape from us like we had the plague or something. I was pretty much done eating, by the time they popped up by our table, so I just grasped the cup of soda and took an unnecessarily long sip, waiting for Billy to elaborate this whole situation for me.

–What? –He raised his eyebrows cut another piece of pizza, pretending to be unaware of what just happened.

–What was that? You’re secretly _Matilda’s_ principal, _Miss Trunchbull_? –My snagging comment made the man laugh, and it also seemed to ease him a little (I didn’t even realize Billy got tense to start with). –Come on, don’t go all secretive on me. You know I don’t like mystery.

–You don’t. –He nodded and managed to hide a smile with his pizza. After I attentively stared for long enough, Russo realized that the subject was not, by any means, going to be dropped and he finally answered, with a sigh. –He’s head of the public relations team _and_ advisor. He’s also getting fired tomorrow.

–Fired. –Now that’s something interesting. I purposefully put the cup down to point my curiosity (it works). –Care to elaborate?

Chewing. _Right_. I’m hardly ever this curious about this type of subject, but considering that his face is scarred for life and it has been a month since he even went to work, I’m starting to wonder. Some explanation won’t hurt. I’m not letting this one go, and as soon as Billy realizes that, he goes back to talking.

–There were some issues with Anvil; things that are solved, for once, but Robinson did not make it easy for us to figure out what happened in the first place. There’s a bunch of people who were part of the system, and neither of them are aware that I’m onto them.

–So you’re going to fire everyone?

–It’s going to be one hell of a show. –Billy winked at me and took another bite of pizza; his last.

–And they’re just… You mean they’re dirty people? You knew about that for some time now and just allowed them stay anyway? –I believe the word for what I did is “scolded”. –I trust you had a reasonable motive.

–Kind of. It’s complicated.

–Billy, this sounds dangerous.

–Kind of… –He started off again, but stopped in his tracks after seeing my deadly glare. –Sure. _Could_ _be_. But so far, everything is under control. Most of them are going from work to _jail_ , if that’s what you were wondering.

Billy said it with a tired expression, and for the first time ever I allowed myself to look at his face and linger on the scars. On his right cheek, the scars were bound together like a wire; on the left cheek, there was something like a bullet hole (I’m not even sure of how this is possible) and another one started on his forehead and came down all the way to his cheekbone like a hook. The nose didn’t look broken, but it seemed to have been split in half and there were more on his forehead. For now, it seemed like Billy has been growing a beard – and I started to wonder if it was because he didn’t want to bring a razor to his clearly sensitive skin. Makes sense (and he looks just as striking, I’d say).

–I believe you know what you’re doing. –I start carefully. –But it still makes me feel weird. I don’t want you to get hurt again, marine.

A soft smile spread on Billy’s face and his eyes started to shine a little like when it seems that he’s seeing something especial. It is sweet and it does make me feel a little reassured, although I have no idea as to why and I’m not exactly sure why I felt like I needed it on the first place.

–Don’t waste your time with that. Everything is under control, I swear. –Billy said with a shrug, and his sweet smile quickly turned into a smirk. –And if not… I mean, didn’t _you_ say something about _Scarface_?


	7. let there be light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh HI! So I wrote a little more. It was actually kinda funny - I sat back and confidently said "c'mon, this is the seventh chapter, they gotta kiss. It's gonna happen iRIGHT HERE IN THIS PAGE." FIVE PAGES LATER and they were still MAKING COFFEE.  
> Well. Also.  
> In this chapter, Billy will pick up a paper with a song the main character wrote, and I thought about actually writing a poem (I do it a lot, so) for it. So if you don't read the poem, it's fine, but my line of thought was "the reason why he's going to do this/make a certain decision is because he's going to read her lyrics and make an assumption". So if you want to read the lyrics to know what it says, it's on my tumblr. Here's the link: https://caotica-but-quieta.tumblr.com/post/183882658510/an-ode-to-our-hauted-house
> 
> well, that's it. Hope you guys like this one!

Truth be told: there isn’t a single thing in this very universe; this very much packed, dying planet, that is under control. Not even when they’re in the grasp of my neighbor’s very long and scarred hands.

Billy still had some things to solve, so we came back to our apartments before midnight. I ended up in the studio, going through some papers and mixing other things that should have been done for quite the time now; going through emails and job offers (and actually accepting some. Writing a couple songs for a new upcoming popstar; helping another producer ghost on the album for this well know singer who haven’t written a song on her own since before fame… The money doesn’t hurt). I hadn’t even realized I had fallen asleep on the table until some noises from the room next to mine woke me up.

He’s getting ready to work. _Or leaving_ , as I’d guess based on the hour my computer displayed.

Then, I slept a little more on my own bed, in the hopes that my body would ache a little less. By the time I actually woke up and got up to keep going with my newfound responsibilities, the hell was already breaking loose around the city – if not by my decision of watching the news while having lunch, I’m not really sure for how much longer I’d go on without knowing that Billy’s beautiful scarred face was printed everywhere.

A mass fucking dismissal, but everyone left in a police car. A couple politicians and some other well known military went down too, and there were plenty of clips from the arrests.

Filthy rich people. The kind of people with enough money to live in absolute luxury, die and still leave millions to their great grandchildren. The kind of people you don’t really mess with, but judging from what I know, Billy isn’t one to be messed with either.

There are clips from him too: paparazzi and journalists are surrounding the Anvil facility like starving vultures and they have pictures and videos of every single breath Billy takes. He’s been in and out a couple times – there were no announcements, but since the media is following him everywhere, his locations have been resumed to a police station, the city hall, a residential building (that isn’t ours), a law firm and back to Anvil every once in a while.

The news stresses me out of my meal. I _knew_ this _motherfucker_ was swimming in deep waters. As my grandmother always said, _“the ocean doesn’t have hair”_ – that’s to say that if you start drowning, there’s nothing to hold onto. You’re going to drown, period, so don’t get into the goddamn water in the first place.

But that’s not how Russo works, is it?

No, it certainly isn’t. He’s something else. Front page; every headline, every channel, a trending topic on Twitter. His name and scarred face is displayed in every possible surface, too many voices raising to speculate about what happened to him or his company. Things that were sweet, warming, but also things that made me disgusted to the point of not being able to stick around to argue.

And on top of everything, this overwhelming and desperate need to talk to him. Ask something else – if he’s doing fine, if he’s already eaten something, if he’s coming home tonight; just a little something to take his head of this madness and ease mine a little. But I’m not that selfish. The man is clearly as busy as one could be, and the last thing he needs right now is someone else pestering about something (and something pointless, at that).

So I didn’t.

I made dinner, although I didn’t fully expect him to show up – and he didn’t. Not during the night or dawn; not until I fell asleep again. Not when I woke up and pretty much crossed the city to meet up with a band who wanted someone to mix their new album. By the time I made my way back, he still was nowhere to be found. I stopped expecting, really. Every once in a while, a new something would be released by the press onto what the hell was going on with Anvil, accompanied by shots of Billy walking around, wearing expensive suits and looking busy and moody.

But I had made some deals during that night. A couple of albums; a handful of songs; plenty of projects. I too had places to go and things to do – lots of people to deal with. Four or five days in, while I talked business over lunch with a singer’s manager, a message popped up on my phone. The singer was somewhere taking pictures for her Instagram in the Maldives; her manager, however, someone who looked gorgeous, poisonous and sort of devilish, was professional enough to show up and discuss everything with me. To be honest, for all I learned, the artist’s only part in her entire career is showing up at the studios to sing perfectly made songs and endure tours in a drug induced haze.

But I don’t care at all. It’s my work that she’s going to promote with her expensive face and name, but also, it’s her money coming into my bank account as soon as the three singles I just signed for are properly mixed. So I fully focused on the manager and our business. I only checked my phone once I was well sited inside the car, on my way to another meeting with the band in their studio of choice.

 

_“I don’t want to sound like a creep, but I’m starting to think it’s you I’m seeing sitting in the Manhatta with a guy in a green suit”_

The text itself was enough to make me curse out loud inside the car (oh, poor uber driver). And anyway – how is it possible that I sat around that fucker on that restaurant and didn’t see him for once? I mean, there was a lot to discuss and that man was for sure a little enticing, but I’m hardly ever dismissive or distracted. I always check my surroundings. And even if I missed that, why didn’t he come over to talk to me?

Russo was probably surrounded by people, working as well; it can only be. Actually, not just “it can only be”. _It better_. We had the greatest time and pretty much spent longer than a week attached by the hip and doing everything together. Now he goes away and only ever texts to say that he saw me, but didn’t even say hi? That’s a little maddening, I’m not going to lie.

 

_“I was there, yes. Good to hear you’re alive. I was starting to think that the press was photoshoping you in different locations. Marine.”_

_“Passive aggressive much?”_

_“That’s your imagination.”_

_“It can only be, neighbor._

_I wish I could see you, but I have far too many things to deal with right now. I can’t relax until everything is cared for.”_

_Relax._ Oh, I could allow myself to think too hard about this. I could sit for a little longer and allow myself to ponder over whether he finds peace in me or if I’m his grown-up-pacifier. I _really_ could, and I also want to do that. For some reason, the thought occurs on my mind, but I don’t allow myself to linger. The studio is nearby now and _Y/n, the Producer_ , needs to come back in action.

_“Just try to keep yourself alive and you’ll eventually come back home. I got more work to do right now, but call me if you need to talk about something, ok? Don’t let me get worried about you. Worried = angry.”_

_“I wouldn’t dare.”_

 

That’s it for the time being. I happen to hear some noises coming from his apartment every once in a while, but it’s always hushed and it never lasts for time enough for me the build the courage to go over and talk. It takes a week, give or take, until we meet again.

To be fair, it’s the angry lady that I come across. I went to this bar to have drinks with another two song writers who are working on the same album with me. After spending the whole day in the studio, somewhat working together and enduring her crews demands and wants, the three of us became friends considerably fast and ended up in a bar to celebrate our friday night (not that there wasn’t any work to do on the saturday, but I’d certainly do all of that from home).

We sat on a table. On a reasonably illuminated place, at that. True to myself, I didn’t allow myself to get drunk. I had a fruity drink or two and then stuck to soda while my friends, Ary and Erick, whimpered about their jobs. The guy was a bit older than the two of us and had met the singer before, but had nothing nice to say about her. The girl was a couple years younger than me; incredibly talented, but also extremely shy to outsiders and wary of pretty much everything. And then there’s this moment in which he’s giving her advice on how to keep herself in the industry; when I look up and my gaze falls on the woman, crossing the bar confidently.

I don’t know if she has some medium tendencies or is just very aware of her surroundings, but not even three seconds from that, the woman fully stops in her tracks as turns her head around to stare at me. Not going to lie; my vision isn’t the best, so I can’t tell if she’s squinting, frowning or giving me a mean look (could have been both). After staring for what I consider to be way too long for a fully developed adult, she motioned for the bathroom and then disappeared.

Great. Not that I actually want to get anywhere near that woman, but I suppose that going in now is easier than having to deal with her later. Before getting up, I looked once more to my friends still weeping and sharing stories – they didn’t even notice me getting up. _Better_ , I guess.

The bathroom isn’t empty, but it might as well have been: the woman looks ready to start a fucking interrogatory, leaning into one of the mirrors with her arms crossed. And sure, she’s strikingly beautiful; and hot; and badass. But I’m hardly ever intimidated when the person in question has been pissing me off. In that case, everything is mostly about pulling an effort to not look cocky.

–What’s your deal? –She’s confused. It’s what I get from both her face and voice, regardless of her stoic facade.

–What’s my deal? What do you think is my deal? You’re thinking too hard into this. –I said matter-of-factly, crossing my arms too.

–Why did you move into that building?

 _Oh_. We’re talking interrogatory _interrogatory_ – but as far as I can tell, she’s not joking at all. So _naturally_ , I hold my sarcasm back.

–Because it’s on a good area and I can afford it. What the hell are you talking about, _Miss Marple_?

–That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Y/L/N. You always show up in very convenient periods, don’t you? For all I know, you’re everywhere; listening to everything; around him at all times. The files I found on you don’t reveal a single thing out of the ordinary, but I think that’s incredibly suspicious. What have you been travelling around for? You didn’t have an address for the past two years.

–You found _my_ files? I _have_ files?!

–That’s not what I asked. –She got off the mirror and stepped a little closer; close enough for me to make out her eye color and freckles.

–Me neither; and I don’t owe you an explanation, you creep. Maybe dig deeper and look for my check-ins.

–Oh, I found them. –She shook her head and smiled at me, although I don’t really know why. And _oh_ , she’s hot. But I already said that, didn’t I? –They’re very self-explanatory, but suspicious nevertheless. And then you move over to his floor.

 _His_. Who the hell is that again? An ex? Just a friend? One of those loud motherfuckers who used to pop up? I’m at loss here.

–Ok, listen. I moved into that stupid fucking building to have peace, but I got there and _your_ friend turned out to be a terrible fucking neighbor. He fucks everything with blood and dirt, screams all night about work and I had to scold him about his sexual habits because we have some thin fucking walls. And I considered moving out way too many times, but I eventually gave up, because I like the place and Billy doesn’t bother me that much anymore. Now, there isn’t a thing I can say that you probably haven’t figured out by now. I’m not going to repeat myself. So if you think I’m a murderer, trafficker or whatever, keep doing your thing. Pull more files; the only thing I do wrong is take medicine without prescription. But stress yourself alone.

Angry-hot-lady still looks smug about something. She gives me a little nod and takes a step back. _Good_.

–Dinah Madani. –She says.

–You know mine. –I shrug, but give her a little nod back. I don’t have time for this, _god_ , I don’t have time for this. –And where to find me.

My friends had barely noticed. The subject now, one that I eventually weighed in, was the lack of originality in most of the songs in the Billboard top 100 charts. Also the incorporation of classical instruments arrangements in new songs. It’s safe to say I didn’t look around at all – the conversation consumed me whole. My phone started to vibrate at some point, while it sat on my lap (I took it off silent since the _Manhatta_ , some days ago).

 

“ _This yellow sweater you’re wearing is a statement_ ”

“ _oh shut the fuck up”_

 

I tilted my head up and tried to look around, but wasn’t able to see him anywhere; not from my position, sitting behind my friends. Maybe his friend talked to him? I mean, I can’t see her either – _name dropping it is_.

 

_“I wonder if Dinah Madani had enough time to deliver to you a report about the interrogatory she made me go through”._

_“No fucking way.”_

_“Oh yeah, my girl is searching files. I guess I’m a suspect. Lock your doors, Russo”_

 

I looked around some more, but it was pretty much useless. No one in sight; they’re probably in the other side of the bar (but how would Russo be able to see me in the first place? No, this is pointless, isn’t it? I tucked my phone back into my pocket and went back for my cup – _I really_ don’t have time for this.

Thirty more minutes and the others decided upon leaving. It wasn’t late at all, but Ary is reasonably young and lives with her mother, while Erick is married and has children, so both had something to go back to. _I don’t_ , but I got up to leave as well. Drinking alone isn’t my thing, especially if I’m in public.

Before the three of us even made it out of the establishment, a large hand closed around my right arm and pulled me back. It wasn’t rough, but it definitely was confident, so I knew it was Billy behind me. Most times, when men pull me back like this in a bar, I turn back ready to swing fists.

But I spared him from my frustration with _Dinah Madani_. Damn, that’s a good name…

–Not before I call my lawyer, sir. –I cocked my left eyebrow and turned around to face Billy. He’s there, of course: beautiful face, striking eyes, tall cheekbones, sharp jawline and the scars, looking lighter and smaller. He’s healing. His face looks less puffy too, which is probably a result of that; the sight makes me smile a little. –You’re looking _way_ better.

The compliment makes him smile big and I don’t miss the shade of red that flushes to his face.

–Dinah can be over protective. –Oh, now that’s an understatement. Billy said, then tipped his head to the side and looked right behind my shoulders. _Right_. Ary and Erick are probably waiting for me to follow them outside.

I looked back to wave and say that I’d stay for a little longer, although I’m not, really. They were leaving anyway, it wouldn’t make a difference.

–Well, _Dinah_ can be over protective all she wants, but far the hell away from me. I’m sick of cocky people with perfect faces.

–Then you’ll love my buddy Frank. Never talks and looks like a crocodile. –Billy reassured me with a light gesture to a guy I’ve seen before, sitting at the bar with Dinah and two other people. –But not today. I’m leaving now; you want a ride?

–Oh, you know the answer, Russo… But let go of my arm, I’m not your five-year-old. –As I said it, Billy immediately released my arm. However, instead of offering his for me, which is pretty much how we’ve been walking around lately, he lowered his hand and grabbed mine.

 _Oh. Ok_. That’s something new.

–You had dinner already? –Billy asked once we were inside the car and out of that street in particular.

– _Nah_. You want dinner?

Billy shook his head in denial, but took a little longer to answer, this time. There was a little smile being played on his lips as he said:

–Dessert.

 _That’s my bright man over there_. I can say for sure that our smiles are terribly devilish as he drives us both to a bakery that I found in a rush on my phone. The place is still open – but barely. We got in and had to buy our cake really quick, because it wouldn’t stay open for the two of us to stay and eat.

The chocolate crunchy cake we got sits on my counter as we part ways to shower (separately) in our apartments. For once, I’m done before him: it has been a while since Billy has been home for long enough, so I suppose he’s taking his time. It’s been fairly hectic for me as well: running up and down, left and right, from the studios to meetings and then back to the studios. It hardly ever left time to come back home and sit around, play something, watch TV, do a face mask… That kind of thing.

I still need to go fix the vocals we recorded today. As I was promised, the singer appeared to record and would disappear soon after – she did. And while all of her vocals were done in the morning and then mixed in the afternoon, there were still some aspects of it that would need a little aid and better adjustment. But I’d leave that for the morning. There’s still one song and a half to go over, but it can stay for tomorrow, it certainly can. As far as I know, my deadline was supposed to be seventeen days from now on, so there’s nothing to worry about (maybe if they don’t like something and I need to come up with a new song – that would be a nightmare).

But as I just said; all and any worry will be postponed until further notice. For now, I have some coffee to make – for some reason, Billy likes drinking coffee with his cake. I don’t know where this habit comes from or _why_ I know that in the first place, but I kind of do. So there’s that.

I can see Billy leaning in the doorstep with my peripheral vision, a couple minutes before detaching the coffee maker and bringing it to the counter.

It’s a strangely soothing sight, but as soothing as it is, it also makes something weird flip in my stomach (which is such a terrible line I’d always dreaded in books). But it does, it really does. The sight takes me back to one or two hours ago, to the two of us walking around holding hands. The reminder makes my hand tingle a little and as a result, the thing in my stomach happens again.

A weird-heat-thing.

It is, perhaps, a little too late when I notice that I’ve been staring; and that he’s staring back. Billy in sweats and an old grey shirt and me in blue pajamas, as it always is. And there _really_ is something about it: something about us, something that feels utterly comfortable and absolutely right.

–Are you going to come inside? –I manage to choke out, stumbling forward to grab the coffee pot. Reaching for a distraction, I believe.

–Yes. _Yes_ , yes, the cake. And coffee! –Billy points a finger to what I have in hands, acting just as awkward as I probably am. This is probably a first to _Mr. A Different Woman Per Night_ , too, so I try not to think too hard about it.

It’s hard, though. I don’t know for sure what it is that Russo and I are doing. Hardcore friendship? Unspoken dating? Strangely celibate relationship? For all I know, what we have could easily fit in any of these descriptions and neither of us has made a move to undo this doubt.

Billy appeared to shake himself from that haze we were both in, and then he came forward to take the coffee pot off my hands. There was this little _cringy_ moment in which our hands touched and I really wanted to balance myself on my toes to kiss him right there – but I didn’t. I just turned around to go get the mugs after a couple of awkward beats and Billy went back to the counter, sitting in his usual spot.

–You’ve been working a lot lately, haven’t you? –I heard him say, as I reached for two plates in the cabinets. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that he was inspecting some papers I had left in the counter. –“ _An Ode to Our Haunted House_ ”?

–Oh. –The few words made me turn immediately. –It’s a little thing I have in store. I took it out some days ago to see if I could incorporate some lines in these singles I’m making for my current bosses, but it didn’t work out. None of these, _actually_. I ended up writing everything from scratch because the band is very involved in the writing process, which is great; and the other singer is kind of useless, but she has two other song writers with me to compose her album, so we ended up planning everything together. So… Yeah.

–Sounds like the music industry has some issues. –He cocked his left eyebrow and, _thankfully_ , set the papers down.

–You either come prepared or get used by trial and error. –I shrugged in defense, going to him with the mugs, plates and cutlery in hands. –It was a little bit of both with me.

We sit together and Billy doesn’t comment on the fact that I dropped the alcohol. It was something that I have been dreading to explain, so for now, I’m happy that he didn’t even bat an eye at me. One way or another, drinking coffee with the chocolate crunchy cake sounds like a really good match, to be honest, and Billy and I devour the thing like a hunger stricken ant colony.

The two of us end up hanging out in the balcony, with the coffee mugs still in hands and looking into the city. To be fair, there isn’t much to look at: just a bunch of old black and grey buildings, the city lights and cars coming back and forth on the road. There’s the constant noise, the New York smell, the silent dangers and the cold wind hitting our bodies as we stand side by side.

–I think I’m going to be home a little more, now. There’s still a lot to deal with, but it’s not going to be exactly a hard challenge. The scandal was a little harsh, but it didn’t even got close to fucking up my clients. –He offered after some minutes of silence, tipping his head to the side.

–You definitely got some free intense advertising. –I said and mimicked his movement, meeting his eyes in the process; dark, but still so glistening and expressive. Cold and stoic, but so warm and soft. _God, I’m so stupid!_ –And I know you can deal with this. Ok?

–Ok. –He slowly nodded, looking a little taken back. And there’s so much more I want to say, but I don’t know exactly how and which words I’d put together in a phrase to voice everything. Or how long could we go with it until I unconsciously buried myself alive in a wormhole.

–It’s… It’s good that you’ll get to spend more time home, Billy. These… _Schedules_ ; they’re too unsettling. You spend some days home, glowing, eating, laughing; and then you jump back in action and only ever comes back home weeks later, looking whiter and sunken. And _so_ stressed out; I’m stressed out!

–That’s… A way of putting it. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were worried about any of this.

–Of course I do! I worry all the time! All the time, Billy; from the very moment you step out of the building, because I never know if you’ll be coming home later. And sometimes you don’t! For days, weeks, doing god knows what and risking your life. Your face is almost healed and I barely remember what it used to look like, but I still think about how I only found out about it when you came back. What if you didn’t, Billy? I’d just wait here forever until someone found your body and the news talked about it? I think about this _every time_ you don’t come back.

His expression shifts little by little as I talk, looking more and more startled and surprised, and I don’t know what I feel about it. I don’t know what I expect to hear – but I’m definitely happy that Billy didn’t jump at the mention of his face. Other than that, I just… I had to talk. Someone had to listen.

–I don’t want that. –He says low, but soft and incredibly unsure, which is a look I’ve never seen on Billy Russo before.

–You don’t… What?! You don’t want _what_? Do _you_ think this is something I can… I don’t know, take back? Just… Russo, you’re so stoi…

His right hand came right to the front of my face, waving frantically to make me cease my angry rant (and it is very much effective). _Now_ , Billy looks completely at loss, sporting a deep frown that displays his confusion as clear as day.

–No! I don’t mean that, it’s just… I didn’t… I don’t - I didn’t realize that I’ve been stressing you out like that. I don’t want this: to stress you out. That’s the last thing I want.

–I…

–I don’t want that.

 _Right_. After repeating that once more, there is this deafening silence that falls over the two of us as we look at each other, distressed. I don’t know how I started this or why I started it, and now I don’t know how I’m supposed to finish. What I said was supposed to make us both feel better, but I ended up birthing a huge mess that looks like a labyrinth.

–Just… Don’t leave me in the dark. –And then… I measure the words inside my head, wondering about what effect they will have once they’re out of my mouth. As the result is inconclusive, I say it anyway (trial and error is real and always works for me). –You’re not alone in the world, Billy; I worry about you all the time.

–I worry about you all the time, too. –He breathes out, and the sentence itself appears to compress my lungs until there’s no air left inside. –But I think about you here. Here, in this apartment, locked away all by yourself and singing about death and loneliness all day. And I… It sounds dangerous and I think… I don’t like to think about it. It’s just… I worry about you all the time, too.

–Sounds like we’re in a dead-lock.

My snarky comment draws a laugh from his distressed figure, and I’m happy to see a smile back on his face – the disturbed body language was starting to freak me out. And also because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that information; sarcasm is my diversion of choice.

–But I’m at peace here. It’s my safe place. I… Eventually understood what you meant by not bringing work back here. –He motioned to the living room and then back at me. Looking me straight in the eyes, sincere and worried, standing close. _So close_.–I have you here. I don’t want to put you in danger or fuck up _our_ safe place by bringing my bullshit in. I can come back here after facing a slaughter in the morning, and it always feels the same. At peace. I will never put you in the middle of all of that; not again. You need to understand that, because I did. If… You’re worried, I’ll talk you. I’ll tell you that I’m not coming back or if I need to travel somewhere; I’ll do it. But I need to know about you too. _I worry about you all the time_.

Being at loss of words isn’t something that I’m familiar with. It’s foreign and I panic a little, from where we’re standing, because I’m freaked out and not being able to process and say something is horrifying.

But I don’t really have to.

We’re in New York and the cold wind is whistling around our bodies; it smells bad, the city lights among the grey buildings make me feel small and it’s too dangerous outside. _Too dangerous outside_. I don’t want him to leave and he doesn’t want to leave me alone. Standing this close, we might as well connect our bodies; we might as well kiss.

Both his hands come to rest around my neck, while mine go to his hips – to pull me; him, closer.

Unlike most of the analgesic-like kisses that I’ve had in the past, where the world would disappear into nothingness as a result of my lips joining someone else’s, this feels like a gorgeous disaster. Like the world is full, bright and alive, and has never been louder before. Like there are thousands of thoughts running through my mind as his lips move against mine, but my brain is unable to access and focus on a single one of them. I can hear the blood rushing on my ears and feel my heart hammering so fast and loud that I’m afraid he’s able to feel it on his own chest.

And his shirt feels so dangerously thin under my fingers, just like our walls, and my brain keeps telling me that it’s so thin, it might as well not be there at all. The two layers of fabric in between our bodies; my blue pajama and his grey shirt, brushing against our skin as we come closer and closer as the time go by, with no forecast of when they’ll come apart again.

It’s a particularly insatiable fever that plagues the two of us, and my mind doesn’t think about the full coffee mugs that we abandoned in the balcony grill once.

There’s too much light, but instead of shying away, I sip from it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://caotica-but-quieta.tumblr.com/post/183882658510/an-ode-to-our-hauted-house


	8. the art of bending steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! I'm back, after quite the time. I guess this is supposed to be the end. I'm happy to finally finish what I started some time ago. Perhaps a little uncertain. I wish I knew what you guys thought about the things I wrote.   
> To be honest, I'd really, really, really, like to hear some critiques. But regardless........... Thank you guys for the attention! It really warms my heart to know that some of you liked the story enough to come back and read what I wrote every time.  
> Thank you!

_It makes sense_.

It does, it really does – the feral women, who appeared to claw at the walls and release wild screams every 10 seconds.

Russo isn’t exactly gentle or fragile. To be fair, relentless is more like it. His fingers don’t press to bruise, but they _press_ , and they’re precise. Travelling centimeter by centimeter, unforgiving of skin and bringing me closer to my own body, if this is even possible. Grounding my soul back to it’s vessel.

His presence is consistent and dominant, and I constantly find myself unable to breath, rolling my eyes back to the center of my skull and relying in the warm pressure pooling in the center of my body, as we move against each other. And it doesn’t stop – it’s something that grows and grows, inebriating my brain and turning me into something like a senseless animal.

Listen, I’m not one for daydreaming and reveries. I come as tough and sharp edged as they can make it, and allowing myself to act like a helpless romance character – like the ones in the cheap pocket novels, sold in supermarkets – is certainly not my thing. The “acting senseless“, “thinking in fluent poetic”, but I guess that’s what I inevitably turn into as soon as I have the chance to taste a little bit of passion. Getting to be with Russo for the first time is a reckless trip to convince myself that _maybe,_ only _maybe_ , it’s ok to give up all of the control I hold in a tight grip. A voluntary process of sawing some edges, if I do say so myself.

One way or another, I’m sold when I gather myself for long enough to absorb my surrounds. It’s more or less then, that I happen to hear myself for the first time. Loud and breathless; _desperate_ , and unwilling to make him stop, above it all. That’s when it clicks on my mind what the hell was happening to those howling women, and _it does_ make sense.

The touching, the noises, the breathing, _the_ _intensity_ ; everything, working together and bringing me closer and closer to a powerful orgasm that I had never experienced before. Not on my own, and certainly not with another person. _Relentless_ and _brutal_ , are the words.

–This is ridiculous.

It’s ridiculous. Coming down from wherever I was, with a cloudy vision and the hands shaking a little, I make the conscious statement that this; this type of insanity, this kind of sex, is ridiculous and – how the hell is anybody able to fuck like that? That my body feels kind of numb and my mind can’t form cohesive lines of thought. And with lungs emptied, how is it possible to breathe into negative space; into his body and run with nothing but that as a fuel?

 _This_ , this is above and beyond. This is ridiculous and – I love it.

It’s kind of surreal, if you think about it twice. The whole “sleeping with my neighbor-best friend” situation, of course; everything else is pretty much self explanatory. And when we eventually curl around each other in bed, that he softly kisses my forehead – it’s when I nod to myself, mentally correcting my previous statement that Billy isn’t gentle. That’s a way of saying it, if you will, but certainly not appropriate. This dumbass is the softest motherfucker in the universe, regardless of acting like some sort of unbreakable sword to the rest of the world. The sweet and silly Russo is more like _my_ Russo.

–I never once took you for “do first and think later”. –I hear him say, words being mouthed in the top of my head. –And even when you’re thinking, you can’t keep your mouth shut.

–How do you even know I’m thinking about anything?

–Aren’t we all, all the time? Thinking, I mean… But you have that look on your face like when you have a big problem to solve and the prospect is giving you a headache. –He pointed out, reaching for my forehead and pressing four fingers there.

–But I do; w _e_. Kind of… Depends on how hard you over-think, but you know I do it all the time. –I shrug and look up a little to see his eyes; searching for any indication of whatever. Of whether or not I’m just part of the coven of unfortunate feral woman, if this is the beginning of something or just a statement; whatever it means. Just… Any indication. Upon further inspection, his eyes show me that soft look that manages to make him look younger and wiser all at once. It’s still a little inconclusive, with the lack of words. –Billy, what exactly is it that we’re doing? Just to get things settled; you know I’m not good with inconclusive.

–I know. –He mutters and leans on to kiss my forehead once more. –I’d say it’s a relationship. I mean, at least… See, we already went through every step of a relationship, if you really think about it. We just did it backwards.

–Did we?

–Yeah, I think so. We started out with the fights, blood and awkward situations; then cooking and drinking together while we talked about work; living together, cuddling and now, sex… Do I have a point?

–You do! –I shake my head in agreement with a stupid smile on my face. –We did everything backwards, didn’t we? And it’s been so long…

–It’s true; it’s been a really long time since we got stuck in that elevator. A really long time of… This. –Billy breathed into my forehead and then moved his head back to watch me. –You’re part of my family. It’s a weird way of putting it, but you are, and I… I know you’re alone here, so I hope that you feel this way about me too.

–I do. –I say, perhaps, too fast and a little desperate, but considering the whole situation, I don’t let myself cringe. –So, we… Relationship.

–Yeah. I’d like that. –He nods slowly, smiling back at me. –You’re not surprised, are you?

–Hm, hm. _No_. No, this is just a word I didn’t see coming at all. I haven’t… It’s been years since I even considered being in a relationship, to be honest with you. –I search for his eyes again, to see if either of us is flinching, but Billy is still smiling to me like there’s something great about it. Like white people smiling at their salads in stock photos. –And not to mess up our moment, but I believe you and I were hanging in the same spot, in this subject.

–You’re not wrong. –He nods quickly, bringing his other hand to cup my face. –But I don’t want anything else right now. What do you think?

–I… Not that I want to, but it’s good to be given the choice of declining. I don’t get to make plenty of choices in my life. It’ just… Adapting to the consequences of everyone else’s choices and going with the riptide. –I confess as I raise my hand to cup his face too, lightly; he’s still healing. Slower, now, but these scars are nowhere near healed. –And no, I don’t want anything else right now. Us together is just fine.

And it is.

We get a fraction of the following day for ourselves. Sprawled in bed and muttering words back and forth, talking about absolute nonsense all the way – as he previously stated, we went through those steps backwards. Deep dark fears have been discussed a long time ago, so today is made for cuddling and caressing.

But I said _fraction_. Billy is still knee deep in shit since the affairs with Anvil, and he has to leave not even a full hour after we have lunch in the kitchen counter.

After the marine leaves to shower and go to work, I walk back to the studio so I can finish my own. There still one song and a half to go; and then I need to go over the three of them again, again and again until I’m convinced that they’re good enough. The work takes my attention fully for hours straight, and I’m only ever distracted from the computer screen with a notification buzz from my phone.

 

_I’ll come back to sleep. I need to leave in the morning again, but I’ll be back home before 7pm. And maybe we could have that date._

 

I still had some repairing to do, regardless of being almost done with the singles. Some weird sizzling here and there; poorly adjusted vocals that I was still pushing and pulling; twisted timing every now and then. But nothing I wouldn’t fix in the next hours, or that I wouldn’t have finished by tomorrow. So I saved my progress and walked to the bedroom to check on the closet – reaching for the carefully folded red dress. Still tucked inside the black paper bag; the shade of red looking darker, since the last time I peeked at it.

I didn’t even remember to reply to the message as I went back to work, trying to remember what I looked like in that dress – and how many awkward strangers would we end up facing tomorrow. Those could be a little unsettling. But I pushed the thoughts deep inside my brain and went back to the adjustments, even hearing the same audios in a different volume each time and with three different headphones – the most common ones, to ensure that I didn’t made something that didn’t translate well to most people.

And with the headphones on, I didn’t register the noise outside. It was only after the enticing smell of pizza flowed into the studio, that I realized that Russo was back home. There was still some work to do in one of the songs; a goddamn sizzling, but I didn’t think twice before abandoning the studio for the night and walking into the kitchen. I could finish tomorrow, or whenever; I was early, anyway.

Billy was reaching for plates in the cabinet by the time I got to the kitchen, wearing sweatpants and his hair still wet. Shirtless, the scars were easy to spot along his torso. From silvery lines to bullet holes and horrifying marks that looked butchered on his flesh. Marks that I ran my fingers through and some that I simply looked at, wondering if they still hurt.

–Like I told you... –He said, looking over the left shoulder with a smirk. –You’ve been acting weird as hell. Staring in silence like a creep. I thought this was _my_ part in our dynamic.

–Hm, I thought the word you used was _relationship_.

–I _did_. And you didn’t answer my question. –He pointed at me with one of the plates and signaled to the counter, where the pizza awaited with a cup of bubble tea. –I brought strawberry. I imagined that there’s no way I could go wrong with that.

–Oh, you didn’t. –I turned to the counter and opened the box, pulling a slice with my hands and putting it in the plate he held in front of me. –Right choices only, today.

–Of course. –Billy bowed in mockery and gave me the other plate, with that soft smile still dancing in his lips. –You’re a good fuel.

–Fuel. –I snorted, elbowing his ribs lightly. And before my fingers got to the pizza in my plate, I remembered. –You talked about that date, didn’t you?

–I did. Good to know you weren’t just avoiding me.

–Avoiding you is what I do best, but… I’m acting weird these days, right? Maybe I’ll hear. –I gave him a tentative smile, setting the plate down in the counter again.

His long hands came to rest atop my hips first, pulling me in slowly. He leaned in and we kissed – calm, soft and light. Like what the whole day have felt like to me. Calm, soft and light. Waking up, eating, showering, working – getting back to Russo at night. Nothing but peace, hiding under the layer of madness and chaos that erupts from the two of us, individually. At peace.

–You would hear me out anyway. –Billy leaned in and pressed a light kiss on my temple. –From here, of if I had asked from my living room. Doors closed.

I know I would. After all, we have some thin fucking walls in this building.


End file.
